Red, White, Brown, Grey S. Cole Grzywinski The story I am about to recount happened some years ago in the middle of spring. The day was beautiful, even for someone like me who loves the cold. It was the kind of weather that touched something in you, it reminded you of days when you were little, running through the grass barefoot. Clear blue sky above and a constant breeze wafting by. It was, in short, the kind of day that made you happy to be alive. It was on a day like this that I was walking home from work, earbuds in, enjoying the sun. I usually come home from work grumpy but today I was in a good mood. I let my arm swing casually at my side as I rounded the corner of the neighboring house and proceeded down the driveway. The lock on the gate to the backyard has been finicky for years and it took a couple tugs to get it open. I spun in place and closed it as I passed through. The yard is of decent size, with stone taking up about 1/3 of the space, and most of that is taken up by the old hot tub, which sits unused under a crumbling roof. Trotting up to the back porch, I climbed the stairs and approached the door.
I stopped where I was, idly pausing my music. There was a mouse lying on the mat
in front of the door. Our back door is a burgundy red with a screen top half and glass bottom half, and it sits on a grey stone step. In the winter the stone is ice cold, even with socks. The mouse lay there, it wasn’t moving. I slowly approached, leaning in to examine it.
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