Page 2 of Little Last Words

THE NEXT MORNING

Iwas thirty minutes into my morning walk when I noticed my shoelace had come undone. As I bent down to rectify the problem, I was reminded of the day my father taught me how to tie my shoes for the first time. I was five years old, and we’d been out buying Christmas presents. On the way out of the shopping mall, I’d tripped over my undone lace and faceplanted onto the cement, skinning both knees in the process. My father was quick to rush to my side, wrapping his arms around me as he asked if I was all right.

Iwasn’tall right.

My scraped-up knees stung like I’d stumbled into a bee’s nest.

But even back then, I remained unflappable.

I didn’t like anyone seeing me cry—not even my parents.

As onlookers glanced in my direction, their expressions full of pity, I bit down on my lip and put on a brave face. My father helped me to a sitting position and sat beside me. He said he was going to teach me something fun—how to make bunny ears with whiskers with my shoelaces. He proceeded to go through each step, finishing off with a double knot to ensure my laces stayed nice and tight.

Thinking back on the memory now, it was hard to believe it had been forty-one years since my shoelace lesson. Glancing down at the sneaker I’d just tied, I smiled, realizing my father was the reason I double knotted to this day, a day which just so happened to be my birthday.

I stood up and closed my eyes, breathing in a lungful of crisp coastal air. On mornings like this, I felt grateful to be alive, listening to the waves shatter against the rocky shoreline below as the birds above began their morning chatter.

My peace of mind was soon interrupted when a jogger whizzed by me, sprinting with gusto like he was heading toward a finish line. Jogging had never appealed to me. With a life as busy as mine, I preferred walking and the meditative connection I felt when I surrounded myself with nature and all its beguiling beauty.

As the breakfast cravings set in, I exited the seaside hiking trail and headed for home, thinking about the egg dish I’d make when I got there. Quiche sounded appealing. Or maybe a French omelet. I was hungry enough for both, and given it was my birthday, it was easy to tell myself I deserved both.

I rounded the corner at the bottom of my street and glanced at the uphill climb toward home. Some days I wished my house wasn’t nestled at the top of such a steep street, but finishing my walk always gave me a satisfying sense of achievement.

I made my way up the sleepy suburb, passing familiar homes along the way. Many of my neighbors started each day with a similar routine. The retired couple living in the white two-story contemporary-style villa with a bright blue front door was sitting outside in their usual spot, enjoying their morning coffee. They always gave me a slight nod as I walked by, then he resumed reading his morning paper, and she continued reading her book. No words had ever passed between us.

A few houses up from theirs was a residence I’d labeledParty House. At times when I passed by in the past, I’d spy a woman exiting the lavish home in a typical walk-of-shame manner. Never the same woman. Always a different one. Always with disheveled hair and a face smeared with the remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Most of these women never made eye contact with me. Those who did often offered a sheepish grin as they scurried to their car.

Today, Party House was quiet.

Then again, it was a Monday.

Then again, I didn’t recall seeing a woman enter or exit the home for the last few weeks.

Across the street was another house I’d labeledTiny Home. Compared to some of the other grandiose residences on the street, it looked more like a vintage shack than a house. Maybe that’s why it was my favorite. With its seafoam green exterior and matching scalloped café-style awnings, it was the most charming home on the street. About a month earlier I’d spotted a few cardboard boxes in the driveway, but I had yet to set eyes on the home’s new occupants.

Thinking they weren’t early risers, I almost didn’t give Tiny Home a second thought as I passed, until something caught my eye. Sitting on the porch was a little girl. Her knees were bent, her head buried over them, blond hair cascading over her legs. In one hand, she had a tight grip on a stuffed pink koala.

I looked at the time: 6:35 am.

It seemed a little early for a child so young to be out and about without parental supervision.

The child was dressed in a nightgown, and I ballparked her age at around five years old. I wondered what she was doing, sitting outside at this hour. Perhaps her parents were still asleep, and she’d managed to walk outside without stirring them.

I glanced through the kitchen window. No lights appeared to be on, and I saw no movement inside the house. As I stood there contemplating the situation, I took a few steps toward the child and noticed she was crying. She tried wiping her tears away, but they kept on coming.

My curiosity was piqued, questions flooding my mind.

Where are the child’s parents?

Why did she wander outside?

And why is she crying?

Perhaps it was something as simple as being locked out of the house on accident.

And perhaps it was none of my business.

Whether it was or wasn’t, I was about to make it my business.

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