The Large Yellow Home.

At the bottom of our hill, between the tall Oregon pines and the scrub oak, sits a large yellow home.  In the summer the squirrels scamper amidst the flowers in the garden and dogs on leashes strain anxiously trying to join in the fun.  The large verandah overlooks a farm where the sheep lazily graze and the sounds of the tractor in the distance is a low, soft hum.

Cars drive up and down the hill, past the large yellow home, the farm and the pine trees.  The drivers oblivious to their surroundings eager to get to their destination. College students on bicycles with their headphones placed firmly in their ears cycling to the beat.

As the sun begins it's journey to foreign destinations the lights in the large yellow home turn on.  There are no curtains or blinds to obstruct the view.  As I drive up the hill I notice an older man sitting in his chair, gazing out his window.  My eyes glance up as I drive by and then focus back on the road and my mission.

There is a sign in front of the large yellow home.  It informs all who pass that this is an assisted living facility.  As the seasons begin to change and the squirrels sleep, the one thing that remains constant is the man, sitting in his chair, gazing out his window.

I wonder what his story is?  What does he see?  Does he have a family?  Did he abandon those who loved him in his earlier years now only to sit alone gazing out his window? Does he remember the days when he was connected to the rest of the world? Does he have regrets? Does he see the cars zooming up and down the hill?  Does he dream of days and moments lost? Does he want to close his eyes and see no more?

Does he see me, looking at him.