It was the day that Mrs. D. died. Or did she? Die that is. If not, where in this world or the one after is she? Bear with me, for three and a half seconds. While I walk you, through this painful and sentimental trail of thought. You see, it was only last week, that I saw her. Mrs. D. of course. She wove to me, from her front porch. Clearly on her way as usual, to tend to her bountiful garden. Bid me a nice day, she did cheerily. With that near toothless grin, which conveyed warmth nonetheless. I buoyantly returned the goodwill, to her and whosoever will.
Mrs. D., always cared for her flowers every morning. And I must say, it was a gorgeous and resplendent arrangement, that she had. That’s how and where we met. Once when I skipped by and about my celestial business. She was standing right beside that floral haven, of a garden. A scene so spectacular, butterflies ceased to flutter in order to gaze. A blossomy tale and theme, of romantic swoon. A dreamy landscape, for a ‘happily-ever-after’ movie.
Sadly though, it appears the fairy princess, will not be sprinting across this colorful lawn. As she rids one foot, of its glassy shoe. That scenario, won't be happening here. At least, that is what it seems like, from where I am standing right now. Something or someone else, has taken Mrs. D’s place. She used to stand right there. Please move a little bit, to the left. Take two more steps forward, now stop! That’s the exact spot. And a very accurate and latitudinal job, by you. Yes, this reader nailed the position, just like a coffin.
Ermm…. I shouldn’t have used that word ‘coffin’. It makes this current puzzle, sound so tragic and final. Like we will never get to meet again. Mrs. D. and I. Or will we? You tell me, you are the one standing on the scene. Anyway, my condolences. I did not mean to spook anyone. But back to this unfolding thriller, of ‘pushing up daisies’. You see Mrs. D., was standing by her luscious lawn. She was caring for it, when I walked by. Like I had explained, two paragraphs earlier. Maybe three, who cares anyway? A serious situation, riddles our mind here. And I don’t believe, that it makes room for arguments. If and when, I repeat the account of events.
So, like I was saying....
Mrs. D. had waved to me exuberantly and I responded, with as much energy. Thus began our waving affair and smile-by dating. But today, I am partially ripped apart. Somewhat so. It might be the acronym and/or word RIP, staring crudely and violently at me. A verb that manipulatively, violates my tender soul. I really could not tell you. Maybe it’s this sorrowful sight, that I am beholding. As it tears me apart. For right there, the very space, where Mrs. D. often worked her floral magic. The same site, on which you dear reader, now pose. Stands a tombstone. SMH sadly.
It is a very small memorial too, might I add. The marked concrete, cannot be big enough. To bury Mrs. D.’s big toe, much less her whole body. Yet that object, proudly proclaims RIP across its grey surface. For whom is the instruction, to RIP anyway? Why is there no name or reference? Someone we could identify, as we mourn that loss. And lament their early or perhaps late departure. Was it supposed to say; ‘Bye Mrs. D. The blossoms sure will miss you’? It is the least they could have done, if you ask me. For the poor green-fingered and jovial Mrs. D.
Hold your helmets, it gets even worse. Right next to the ‘Lilliputian’ headstone, lies an even more pathetic looking casket. That miniature monster, is about the size of a shoe-box. Sadly, all it could probably fit and bury are a bagel and a bag of chips. Yet to think that some mean unthinking person, bought it for Mrs. D. hurts me so. And as if this present despair, were not woeful enough. (A very compassionate writer sniffles). Right across the street from Mrs. D.’s home, is little Ginger’s. She is as playful and happy, as they come. Loves to skip on the side-walk, or look out from the window. But today, there is no sign of life or movement. Everything looks dark and gloomy at ‘Ginger-land’.
However, there is someone sitting in front of the house. Never noticed him before, nor do I recognize him. Who knows? Some new folk, possibly moved in. Or better still, it looks like they moved in and took over the premises. No wonder I saw no signs of life, pure laughter and unbridled delight. Death had come to stay. (Picture below)
I am headed downtown now. Off to hand out fliers by that bridge. It is a wanted sign. With an empty space, where the face of the guilty should be. This is where I need your help. I am looking for that menace. The culprit who hung that ghoulish character, on the tree by the side-walk. That grisly thing, dangles precariously from a sturdy branch. It flaps and carries on with the wind. Wobbles when you walk by, like its studying an outdated dance step. Then two blocks after walking away from mr. shakes, the other day. I find out there are pieces of cotton wool, on the side of my face.
I guess someone expected, that I would blame Mr. Spider for spinning his web randomly. Not so. This gooey and fluffy stuff (on my face), is not the product of a natural occurence or an earthly being. Neither is it an element, of abandoned and decaying substance. It is a trick, right in the snooty skies of Posh Avenue. And I must tell you, this is no place for creepy and sinister objects. That flying piece of white cloth, with one eye sewn shut. Hay for its hair and cotton pieces for its scary and grotesque face. Almost caused me to….
Here is the deal, I won’t complain. Not at all. Come tomorrow, I will just hang a manger on the same tree. And all will be fair and square. It will be surrounded by three dancing camels wearing bells around their necks. Those noise makers, are to inform me of mean predators and persons.
Oh wait, ssshhhh…. I think I see Mrs. D.’s door, opening up. Strange isn’t it? How fast can anyone run, from here? First the tombstone, then the coffin and now creaking objects. My heart is pounding real fast and my coarse hair is standing up and straight!
Here I witness a grave opening up. And it appears, the dead is about to step out. This must be the moment of miracles, that I have been yearning for my whole life. Sure enough, it is Mrs. D. I see. She lives indeed, she lives. Or does she? A bizarre mystery still plagues this land.
“Happy Halloween!” She calls out to me. Her smile is crooked and cold. Beckons to me with a sly gesture. There are dark shadows, underneath her now hollow eyes. She does appear to sway, a tad bit too. Hmmm….
“Happy who?” I start to respond. But then again, so be it.
“Merry Christmas to you too Mrs. D.!” Came my very LIVELY response.
It was the day that Mrs. D. died, or was it? You tell me….