WHISPERINGS
The browning trees blow in October's wind. Fall falls slowly and I enjoy its odor. Leaves being raked, so many escaping, make little whirlpools in the air, then settle down on what is left of fading lawns. It is magic time.
Down the lane Mr. Carlson has raked together a mountain of leaves and some hills. His booming voice excites the neighborhood children circling his Alp. Just a nod of his head and screams of delight are borne on wings to me. The screams become whispers. They tickle my ears. Laughter, whistles, large twigs pound on empty, dry paint cans. It can't be the bonfire that warms my heart for just a moment.
As a heavy gust of wind bows the tall walnut trees, my beautiful white collie walks towards me. He whispers in my ear. 'It wasn't your fault, the car killed me. I was the one who didn't stay on the sidewalk.' My eyes quickly fill with tears, so many I can't see. I wipe them on my sleeve, blink, blink, blink and they fade away.
Mr. Carlson lives just four door down from us, I mean me. He's been friendly and helpful for many years. Lately I have noticed he has grown a bit paunchy and his hair is disappearing. He's a joy to watch romping with the children, keeping them safely away from the sneaky flames. Beside him on a cart, he has a large fire extinguisher with several rakes and brooms leaning against it.
I can't help but stare at him. When did he change his clothes? Where did he get my husband's brown jacket? I don't remember that. Lordy, it looks like Mr. Carlson has been using Rogaine. He has a little gray moustache and a head full of salt and pepper hair. I watch him. He disintegrates, materializes, comes to me and whispers ever so softly, I love you Sally. It wasn't your fault Shag was run over. I left the screen door unlocked. Go, rake our back yard, lie down in the leaves and I will lie down with you.' Tears start again. The sound of happy children,the smell of burning leaves, almost bring me to my senses. Mr. Carlson's fire is burning low. He covers every tiny spark with foam. The children help him take his supplies into his basement.
When they are all gone, I call to them, 'Come here, Kids. How about raking my yard? I'll help and then we can make another bonfire. I'll ask Mr. Carlson to let me keep his extinguisher here. Mr. Carlson overhears and brings me the extinguisher himself, plus four rakes. I add three and am in business. The pile grows fast. The great fire maker winks to me, leans over my shoulder and whispers to me, loud enough for the children to hear. 'Will you have dinner with me, Saturday, Meg? Jake wouldn't mind.'
With my hand blocking my answer from the nosey ears around us, I reply, 'That will be lovely, Mr. Carlson. May I call you Denny?'
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