The Beekeeper's Square Little House
The house - shack - was simple. Years ago, someone had hammered yellow plywood to the square house as siding. They shingled the steep roof with squares of black tar. A big window looked south, out to the ball park across the street. But a grey curtain was pulled across the window. The house was empty. The single door at the front had a padlock. From a pocket in my jeans, I pulled out the spare key Frank had pressed into my hand the previous summer. I unlocked and opened my new home. Stale air. Dead flies lined the window sills; the walls were cold and damp. The house had been closed for months.