Grass in the height of summer grows about a half-inch a week.
The lawn at 3917 Magrath is easily about 6 inches high. Even the slowest kid in math class can calculate that it hadn’t been cut in about three months. Normally 3917 looked like a putting green. Today it looks like the abandoned driving range off Barley Hill, near the ghastly new condos, where everyone lets their dogs off-leash to shit and run. The stark white distance markers still stand, waiting.
Finally, someone notices the slow decay at 3917. The Homeowner’s Association drops a warning letter in the mail. 3917 is in violation of the association’s rigorous standards. Prepare to be fined if the yard is not brought up to spec. That includes the trees. Be considerate of your neighbors, it intones, solemnly. We are a community.
Then someone notices the smell of smoke as they walk by 3917 about a day later. There is a metallic haze hanging over the house.
Then everyone notices the idling ambulance and the stretcher being loaded in the back, a sheet covering a body, strapped tight and flat. The sheet is stark and white.
The coroner would report 3917 died of a slow leaking aneurism. It probably took him a good day to die. His cell phone was just out of reach. His tea kettle fused to the low, glowing burner.
3917 had been sick for months, apparently.
What was his name? The gal who lives across the street at 3920 asks the man who resides at 3915. The ambulance is backing into the street.
No idea, he responds. But he seemed nice.
Bleak and well done