NanoWriMo 2009 - Fic 24

[deathpixie]

It wasn't much of a house to look at. At one point it had been one of a row of identical buildings, small two-storey cottages, each with a tiny front patio and a garden the size of a postage stamp. Not much, but it was the first home to a young immigrant couple back in the 1960s and to them, it was a dream come true.

That was forty years ago. Carlos lives there alone now, his wife having passed away ten years ago from cancer. Their sons visit regularly, bringing their wives and their children. Carlos keeps the house in order and in summer he tends his tiny front garden, growing tomatoes and cucumbers on lattices. He misses Maria, always, but on the whole, he is happy.

The developers who want to buy his house, on the other hand, are not happy.

The first offers came in the 1970s, when their first son had just been born. They'd considered it, but in the end it had seemed like too much bother. Maria loved the little house, had already put so much work into fixing it up and wouldn't hear of selling.

The next offers came in the 1980s during the building boom. Many of their neighbours sold up at that stage, their homes demolished in favour of multi-storey office and condo buildings. "Not yet," Maria had pleaded with him. "Wait until the children have grown up. It will upset them too much to move now." She'd meant it would upset her too much, and he'd agreed.

In the 1990s when the developers came back, this time it was Carlos who decided. Maria was dying and he wanted her to die at home, in the house she loved. The old neighbourhood was gone, replaced by up-scale boutiques and trendy coffee shops. Carlos did his grocery shopping in a little micromart where everything was macro- or bio- or non-something-or-other and still didn't taste as good as the vegetables he grew himself. He tended to Maria, holding her hand when she finally passed away.

The developers still come, and Carlos still sends them away. His sons argue with him sometimes about his stubborness and the value of the land, but he tells them with a smile that they can sell the place when he's dead a not a minute before. The house is hidden away among the skyscrpaers, incongruous with its bright blue paint and the pink flamingo on the patio. Carlos likes to stand at the gate and nod hello to the business people on their way to work and sometimes one or two will stop to chat. In summer, he'll give them sun-ripened tomatoes fresh off the vine.

"Why stay, Carlos?" one of them asked once. "It must be difficult for you, living here alone."

Carlos simply smiled, his face creasing into a thousand wrinkles.

"Ah," replied. "I am never alone, living here. I have the whole city as my neighbour."