Red blankets covered the windows. No one could see inside. Siding was falling off. Shrubs overgrown. Weeds had taken over the front yard.

It’d been years since anybody lived there. Stayed in the O’Reilly family for years. Handed down from one generation to the next. A torn Irish flag still waved.

Kids used to throw rocks at the house as they made their way home from school. Made up stories about the home. Said it was haunted. Told folks that old man O’Reilly died in that house. And, he did.

He was the last O’Reilly to live there. Had no one to hand it down to. No sons or daughters. Nieces and nephews didn’t want it. Brothers and sisters had passed on. No family. No friends. A true loner. Never went to the neighborhood pub nor to church. He had given up faith in God and whiskey long ago. The old man just sat in his chair each day drinking tea and listening to The Clancy Brothers on his record player. He tapped his long fingers to the music. Sometimes, he would pretend to be dancing with a beautiful woman right in the kitchen; like in his younger days. He laughed and cried, but mostly stayed silent as the needle touched the wax. Remembering. Remembering.

Brought out on a stretcher for all to see. Had a heart attack. Died in his sleep. That’s what they said. The body was cold. It had been in decay for weeks. It was by chance that his nephew found him. A pot of tea was on the stove. He raised a cup to his uncle. Cheers, he said. God be with you.

Red blankets covered the windows.