She drove us to her place. I stepped out of her car, and stepped back in time. Kids playing with their toys all up and down the sidewalk. Concrete sidewalks clean and neat, kinda like what I thought heaven mighta looked like. It felt like I didn't make enough money to walk there. Maybe if I came in hanging off the back of a garbage truck, but even then, I'd need spic and span gloves and a clean jumpsuit.
Mathilda lived on a street island. There were a few lawn ornaments, and a big gaping hole in the middle. She walked me through the yard. She and her husband Henry brought back Mr. Flamingo from Florida. The milk jug came from a Wisconsin dairy farm. Then, the gnome. Last thing Henry bought before he died. More than just the contest, it was her moment O'Murray, what she remembered of her husband.
The lawn was crowded. The green grass was trampled, mostly her because she couldn't step as light as she used to 50 years ago. I found a few colored bits, smaller than my fingernail, chipped off when they dragged the gnome away. Long dirt rut from the original spot out to the driveway, but the trail ended there.
She gave me the name of two houses also competing. I saw them while she drove us in, looked like home and garden stores exploded in their front yards. No bars nearby, so I couldn't talk to people there. They probably all drank wine or brandy, aged thirty years to the day. I was lucky if a bottle of bourbon made it five days in my office.
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