It was a beautiful house once. Now, the white picket fence needed painting; the lavender hedge was woody and untidy. In fact the entire garden had become old and tired – a reflection of the woman who still lives there, behind the once pretty, blue front door.

An old letterbox, with a crooked lid, has rust highlighting the last remaining number. It stands like a punctuation mark at the end of the fence line. A rusty gate, which although rarely opened, has never quite closed, completes the picture. It is a sad house.

I love the wildness of the garden and I visit every day, admiring the lavender flowers as they fight for position among the weeds, between the flaked pickets. People pass by, belittling the state of the garden and the house, yet no one approaches the blue door – or offers any help.

There must have been a time when a number seven had stood proudly beside the number five on that letterbox; instead only a rusty, ghost like outline remains. A time when the fence, the gate and the pretty blue door, beckoned to family, friends and neighbours. My daily visits have shed no light on her loneliness; I have offered her no consolation.

Today to my surprise, the blue door opened. The old lady made her way slowly towards the gate, brushing some lavender away as she lifted the lid on the empty box. She gazed around with unseeing eyes. An old man passing, called to her;

“Mary! I haven’t seen you in years. How are you? Have you heard from Emily and the children?”

She gave no answer, although I am certain she heard. I saw tears well in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks as she hastened back towards the door. I watched that door close, wishing the man would follow. She needs a friend, someone to talk to, and I can’t help.
I linger in the wild, beautiful garden to collect my pollen, but although I hum as I work, the sadness of today seems to have tainted the sweet lavender.