jml297

I go walking. I head out the back door and whistle to my dog. The leash is nearby; I clip it on and we head out.

Living in a city is a strange beast at times. I’ve lived here all my life, but within my neighbourhood there would be just a handful of people that I know by name. Years ago I knew everyone on the block, but that was before it became a desirable place to live and people squeezed in. Then the developers started to take an interest, placing their stamp on the streetscape.

Now there are three houses left on the block. Residential units jockey for space and sunlight along the rest of the block. Today I pass two families of three, the little toddlers reaching plump hands out to Wilbur, my dog. He isn’t phased, gives them a sniff and moves on. The parents nod at me curtly whilst carefully guiding their child away.

I find my pace and stretch it out, smelling sweet jasmine blossoms outside Joan’s place. Joan has lived there for decades, and her garden is always neat and tidy. Passing by her mailbox, something catches my eye. Catalogues and papers are jammed in her letterbox, exploding from the front and back slots. This isn’t like Joan. She usually arranges for me to clear it if she heads away.

Wilbur sits patiently on the footpath whilst I empty the letterbox. He follows me in the front gate and stops to drink rainwater from an upturned dish.

I knock on the front door. No response. I ring the bell, pressing my ear against the door. Closing my eyes, I can hear the steady tick of the grandfather clock in her hallway and nothing else. I whistle to Wilbur, and we slink down the sideway path, circling to the back door. The lights are on inside.

I peer into the back door window. Oh hell, she’s on the ground. Wilbur is whining now, scratching at the door. I turn the door handle and enter, my heart thumping in my ears.

This was written to a writing prompt from A Writer’s Book of Days by Judy Reeves (Day: September 27).

Photo: a pair of walking shoes