The house was in need of a paint job. Bluish gray strips and chips of wood clung to the old two story, making it look run down, beaten, tired. A window had a crack in it as well. On cold nights when the wind blew, glass would make a screaming sound, like it was getting punched, or, kicked. The grass was brown.

In his younger days he kept up with the property. Both the house and the yard looked immaculate. Bushes were trimmed, limbs cut, tulips blossomed in the spring. White rabbits danced on green grass. The dog buried bones in the backyard. A swing set looked perfectly new. He and his wife would push their kids into the stratosphere; they’d laugh.

Now the swing set was rusted. No one played on it anymore. He’d go out there at midnight and push the empty seats. The old man could’ve swore he heard laughter. Both his boy and girl had been gone for years. He blamed himself. And his wife was no longer alive either. Everyone had left him it seemed. ‘Least that’s what he thought.

One of these days I’ll paint this house, he said. Someday, he popped open a can of beer, I’ll fix her right up like the old days, took a drag on a Marlboro.

But, each night was the same. He drank and cursed his God. Watched reruns of Rockford Files. And laughed at how it used to be.

The house was in need of a paint job.