“For the garden,” he told me. “Every yard needs a little nonsense.”
I kept that gnome because it reminded me of him.
So when it disappeared, I noticed immediately.
I searched the yard.
The garage.
The flower beds.
Nothing.
Two days later, I saw it.
Sitting beside Monica’s front steps.
Except it looked different.
She had painted it blue.
But I recognized the chipped nose.
The tiny crack near its hat.
The faded red paint underneath the blue.
It was mine.
I stood there for several minutes, wondering what to do.
Should I knock on her door?
Should I ask why my garden decoration was sitting in her yard?
But then I thought about her children.
I thought about avoiding unnecessary conflict.
I thought about keeping the peace.
So I said nothing.
That was my mistake.
Because when someone learns they can cross one boundary without consequences, they usually start testing the next one.
