The Tilted Stake

I slipped down the bottom porch step... pausing on the sun-warmed flagstones to listen. The garden path was quiet, shaded here and there by tall dry grass. Near the edge of the low brick flowerbed, a slim wooden plant marker stood tilted in the dark soil. I stepped forward very carefully, keeping low, until my fingers could reach the rough pine stake. Faint, weathered pencil marks still curved across the grain: the letters of an old word, half-faded by the sun. I traced the smooth groove of the first letter with my thumb. It felt peaceful here, reading this little forgotten sign in the gentle noon warmth. #Colin(changed)