The leaves looked the same last year, catching the light from the yellow streetlights. First I see the dog and then I see him, his cap on his head, walking hastily as always.
And I remember suddenly, standing with him in the forest at twilight, looking out over the house as he was showing me the property. He told me about how they built the garden and how the children collected rocks for the paths. His cell phone rang and it was his son calling. His voice softened and he called him a funny petname. I looked at the lights coming from the house and I did not want to go back. He told me about the motocross area and how they disliked the sound. We passed a small castle in which they sometimes dined with the people living there.
I remember sitting in the car next to him, with the dogs in the back. And carrying lunch over the dunes to the beach. He was like an uncle who knew many things.
I remember being the first one to wake, stepping into the only hot room in the house as I was shaking with cold. I remember looking into the old tainted mirror. And him, showing me how to sweep the dust from the concrete floor.
