I remember him now and then

When I’m feeling brave enough to recall my childhood

Mr. Strathclyde

He was a welcome break from the ceaseless banality of the suburbs

I’d see him every Saturday morning on my way to work

Damp panatela clamped between his gums

Stained string vest and pyjama bottoms

Smirking like he’d just told a racist joke that no one had heard

‘Morning sport’ he’d yell at me over the thrum and whine of his lawnmower

I hated sport

But I liked him

‘Morning Mr. Strathclyde’

His lawn was immaculate

Set square perfection

He’d tend that lawn until they took him away he used to say

I never saw Mrs. Strathclyde, although I knew she was lame

Sometimes you’d see the curtains twitch in the bedroom upstairs

 

One Saturday I was walking to work when I noticed a weed growing in the centre of the lawn

Right in the centre, defiling it

The next week there were more weeds

The grass was getting longer

Clover and moss burst through the pristine layer of grass

A crisp packet lounged in the corner, its garish maw gaping obscenely

After that my dad lost his job and we moved to the other side of town

I never saw Mr. Strathclyde’s lawn ever again