Autumn In The Backyard

Oh Art Of Time And Sound, If Only In You I Could Be Found, But That I Fear, And With Good Reason You See, For You May Be The Death Of Me

The woman that lives directly across the street from me has the pipes of an old accordion and will commonly sing the sun into sinking about a half an hour earlier then scheduled. She has no doubt been singing and smoking her entire life.

I sometimes sit in my car with my windows down and listen when I am about to head off somewhere in the evening hours. My neighbor and I agree that she’s got something missing upstairs; she’s not completely all there. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her but it didn’t quite flow, I asked her how long she’s been singing and she replied “you too.” I haven’t tried talking to her since.

The man, who lives with her, takes up residence in the front room closest to the walkway. His TV is never turned off, this I’m certain of because his room is always a glow when I get home no matter how late or early it might be. He has a horrible limp, and is probably in need of a hip replacement, which has been put of for far to long. This is understandable because his profession, I’m assuming, does not supply him with sufficient funds and this is why he lives with the old woman in the first place. He, however is a concert pianist and accompanies her in the room to the left of his, adjacent to the front porch. He taps those keys, she sings from her toes, and I sit and listen.

The old woman’s husband I have seen only once, and he was being wheeled out of their house on a stretcher into the back of an ambulance one January evening. I didn’t stay to watch for long because the bitter cold was sending my body in to slight shock. He is home now or so I’ve heard, but have yet to see him for myself.

The garage they will commonly leave open all night, and I’m surprised that their freezer and lawn mower are still present. Our street being only minutes away from the largest establishment in town (The Victorvalley Mall) is a common footpath for the unsupervised and particularly questionable youth in this town.

On Sunday mornings a large red diesel forerunner sits in front for about a half an hour depending on how behind schedule it is. I’ve observed on a number of accounts the two (the old woman and the man with the limp) dressed in their Sunday’s best, scooting out the garage and struggling to climb into the oversized vehicle, with bibles in hand.

One of these days I’m going to go over there and ask if I may sit in on one of these musical sessions. I have yet to muster up the courage to try and conduct another conversation with the old woman, she probably has no memory of me or the conversation we barely had sometime ago, that I am okay with. I merely desire to sit and soak in the fullness of her soul filled choruses, and the graceful embellishment there of by his accomplished fingers.