From where my house sits, the man across the street always looks like he's smiling. His teeth are bright white, and they look plastic, set against his red, leathery skin. Decreased distance reveals that he is, in fact, not smiling, but scrunching his face, all of the time.
He lives with his mother, a sweet lady, usually in her nightgown, hunched over and scuffling around the perimeter of her house.
Their yard is pristine, but not without effort.
Last night at 11:30, the man was shoveling one inch thick snow from the walkways and paths in front of their house.
In the summer, his mother sweeps everyday. She even sweeps the street.
Year-round, every so often, I will step out of my car and hear the whirring of a vacuum. I take one glance across the street to discover one of them pushing a Hoover around their front porch.
Their work is never finished. Always vigilant for leaves, chestnuts, twigs, stray debris they work tirelessly. They seem content.
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