The old two-story house - once a well kept home I suspect - has fallen into a state of severe disrepair. The last remnants of a powder blue paint cling in desperation to the gray and drying clapboard. Shutters, half on and half off, frame countless broken windows.

It’s early evening when I pass by most days on my way home from work. A dim glow can be seen from somewhere deep inside. A small, burgundy sedan sits in the driveway seemingly unmoved from last I observed it. It can’t be helped, the wondering, who resides in this once-loved place?

Large shade trees grace a front yard that has been left un-manicured season-after-season and now little more than a spot where burdock, ragweed and the like have run amuck. The weeds, having grown tall and gangly all around the place, leave the house shrouded in a lonely mystery - a stark contrast to the neighboring property all neatly trimmed and tended.

Heading west on 20 toward home I wonder again about my neighbor in the powder blue house. What circumstance could lead one to such a place of seeming despair and loneliness?

Most mornings I observe a bay mare standing next to one of the large, red barns on the property. There’s an old claw foot tub and a pile of hay nearby. The old mare seems well-fed in spite of her untended surroundings. Always standing alone in a warm sunspot dozing, her left rear leg in resting position.

Again I wonder, “Who it is that seems to be hiding here in full view?”