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The Zen Of Raking

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Rake, rake, rake….

The rake pulls neatly, efficiently, through pine needles and leaves, pulling them along in a long, curving wave across the yard. It’s so soothing, raking. He’d happily stay out here all afternoon, half hypnotized by the long, methodical stokes of the rake, creating order in what earlier today had been untidiness. He can’t abide untidiness.

He has no close neighbors, which is nice. Nothing worse than a nosy neighbor. Whose business is it, if he wants to stay outside raking all day? Even after all the leaves are gone? Nobody’s business but his own. And the lawn looks lovely when it’s all perfectly raked.

Rake, rake, rake…

The tines of the rake catch on something more substantial than leaves, and roll it over.

A glove. A little one, a child’s striped glove. And close by, a child’s plastic watering can.

Now how did those get there? he frowns, thinking. He has never had children, nor a family….

Has he?

Has he??

Surely not. Children were so messy, leaving their toys everywhere, and a wife would’ve just been a nag, wanting a mess of untidy flower gardens. A family would’ve driven him crazy…

He picks up the glove, noting the feel of something solid still inside, something bony…

I thought I burned everything along with the leaves; must’ve missed this somehow… the thought flickers through his mind, so briefly he can tell himself it was never there, that he never had a family, that he has always been here, by himself, just raking his nice lawn….

He tosses the glove back in the pile, to be burned later.

Rake, rake, rake…


Credits to: Queenofscots

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