The decay was a slow progression, viewed from the outside in.

It started with the landscaping.

In the gated, golf course community, where each yard has its own private service, and lawn equipment is running most daylight hours, this lawn went uncut. The landscaping of flowering bushes went from trimmed and even, to branches reaching up in every direction, unkempt and out of control.

The high end sedan sat on the curved drive day after day, slowly decomposing in the sun. Walking past the house, there seemed to be no signs of life – no kids playing, no humming of lawn mowers, no one splashing in the pool behind the house.

The roof aged, growing moldy, even as the pool turned greener from disuse.

People speculated on what was happening. Illness? Cancer? Death? For surely something had brought blight upon this formerly beautiful home, a perfect example of the American dream.

One day a hand scrawled “for sale by owner” sign appeared. Small and yellow, it was barely noticeable next to the large brick mailbox.

In this market, though, the house was snapped up quickly – “as is, no contingencies”. In a matter of a couple of days, it was sold, cash money, despite how worn down and depressed it looked.

A few days later, an “estate sale” sign was in the yard, again hand written almost apologetically, leaning against the slant of the steep drive.

We pulled in, ready to buy any fine furniture that was to be had, and then we saw that death had come to the house from the inside out.

The owner was scarcely past middle age. The house was frozen in time, as if the stilled grandfather clock marked the moment the internal loss began.

Pictures of high school kids, frozen in their 90’s fashions, hung askew on dated wallpaper. All around were signs of family – quotes about family, a farm style dining room that undoubtedly held many family meals, holiday decorations, and a decidedly feminine touch that had left fading memories in its wake.

Alone, the owner was quickly parted with everything he owned. His face was red, his eyes kind but bloodshot. The tops of his hands were purple. My nursing assessment grew concerned for him, and I met his eyes in honest sympathy. I reached out and told him I’d been praying for him – and I had.

Seeing the obvious loss he had been through, I wished him better.

I asked him where he was going next – he said he didn’t know. He said maybe a camper. The words were spoken matter of fact, but his sudden downward gaze and clipped silence betrayed his attempts to be nonchalant about the inevitability of what was happening.

From a gated community to a camper.

My mind flashed briefly to the times I was barely hanging on financially, living hand to mouth. It certainly wasn’t in a two storied home with dormers.

I gave him cash for the few things I purchased, and felt the heaviness of the house in mourning close in around me.

Days later, the signs were gone from the lawn, and the sedan sat empty against the curb.