Damn, you really liked that house- simple architecture and small, but extensive meadows and skies out the back door. You planted willow trees out there and waited for them to weep enough to grow tall and protect you from the sun on hot days. But the only one who wept was you, and it was on the day the neighbor walked out there with an axe and split the trees apart. Silent as the whispers of leaves in the wind, you said nothing and only wished you could find a home near like-minded people. 9 houses you’ve lived in 10 years- each having failed you. This being the ninth, and yet nowhere near the ninth hole green (you missed the fact that a ritzy golf club held up the noses of the wealthiest men in town just down the road. Unfortunately for you, the noses were too high to smell your irritations). The house quickly became the most helpless comfort you knew; with the golf balls penetrating your roof, walls and windows, there came ensuing leaks of rain. Golf balls came through your ceiling and landed a hole-in-one in your black coffee. They struck your TV antennae and disallowed you to watch your favorite movie scenes. You were tired of spackling, so instead you hired pots of plants to take care of the water. Your house became filled with plants, and so it was understandable the passers-by would pull their cars over and ask if your conservatory was free of charge. Stupefied, you stared at the disconnect like a broken telephone wire as they entered your home. The business boomed and you gave your spackling tools to your weeping induced neighbor. You were happy until your newly established greenhome was kicked by the child of a golfer. “It’s just a cold frame!” they exclaimed, not impressed with the small size of your home. You replied, “well, you-you-y… you!” and tears collected in your eyes and like a much needed storm in a drought, you thundered to the meadow. Have a cold heart- That’s what you wanted to say, but you could only speak it out loud hours too late, when the sun was setting and the tours had vanished, and you were alone. Your own heart turned cold and your tears fell upon your pillow and never reached the thirsted plants. You awoke the next day with more holes than plants and the feeling was overwhelming. You put a closed sign in the window, but didn’t hear any cars anyway. As you walked out onto the meadow, golf balls hit your body like in a warzone, but you persisted to plant your greenhouse flowers in the ground. All except the one wilted flower, the difficult one whose discouragement kept his own stem from standing up straight. You patched up the holes of your home one more time, knowing they would soon be broken. You took your plant and left a for sale sign in the front. With the golf balls, you poked small holes and planted wild seeds inside. With all your plants surrounding you in the meadow, you teed off and watched as each golf ball hit the clubhouse in the distance. You wanted the seeds to sprout madly to teach them a lesson. But the seeds never sprouted, and the ones you planted in your meadow died of thirsty loneliness. Your house never sold, but it did become occupied by the vines and weeds in time. And there was no willow tree in sight, but you could have sworn the whole place was weeping your absence. The vines waited for tears to fall from the sky to grow into those holes in the ceiling.