The Woods Behind My House

We settled into the neighbourhood comparatively late, it was already monsoon when we moved in, as proven by the weather.

It rained every day and thus I could not venture into the forest at the end of the road.

So I waited, impatiently, for the leaves to change colour and fall, for snowfall and I waited for spring.

The wait was everlasting but I filled it by befriending the neighbours.

To our right, there lived an old lady. She never married so my parents called her spinster. She would sit on the steps in her garden scribbling away in a thick leather diary. Her house was always neat and tidy but her garden overgrew. On my asking why, she replied, "I want the plants to live as I dreamed, beyond control, beyond humans".

I enjoyed her company but she enjoyed silence more, so I let her be. 

To our left, there lived a grumpy old man who would stand on his porch, and stare and frown early every morning. He housed a tall, lean greyhound who I befriended after bribing it with enough treats. It was clever and fast. It would run across our porch and jump over the fence to get to the old man's back door.

One day, the hound beckoned me over to his house and the old man let me in. I remarked on how intelligent his dog was. 

"I think she's too clever for her own good!" he replied, laughing a dry croaky laugh, "It is never good for a pet to be this independent."

I learned that it was the first and only pet he had owned since a cat in his childhood.

When spring finally sprung, the time had come for me to explore the forest. I dashed out of bed, hastily getting my clothes on and stuffing my breakfast down my throat.

Coughing, I ran down the road and was joined by the greyhound. I went forth into the woods with it walking in front of me. 

The forest was lush and green and brimming with flowers. I plucked one and tucked it into the dog's collar. I remained there a few hours, never wandering too far from where it rested. 

I visited the forest every day after lunch, accompanied by the hound most days, and it never disappointed me. 

It was always mysterious and comforting, up until the fire. 

It broke out in the late evening, after tea. The great big trees under which I tried to climb in all my hubristic optimism, were charred, and the little flower bushes all-around had been burnt to ashes. I never saw the woods again, just the envelope of fire last.

We left the area immediately after. I never saw the poet spinster or the frowning old man again. But through the windows of our car, I saw a lean grey dog, running away, with a flower tucked into its red collar.