Among the tall oaks and one single ancient magnolia stood his Grandmother's old house, padlocked and leaning. The porch floorboards had rotted through, and the chimney had long ago fallen through the ceiling into what used to be the kitchen.
Amongst it all, at the back of the house stood the camellia. A hard frost and temps in the teens at the beginning of the month had left the buds burnt on the edges, and yet the bright crimson flowers were a lovely dot of life on an otherwise mostly dull winter landscape. The bright evergreen glossy foliage was the perfect canvas.
From the back of the house, I find the old path meandering around the hundred acres or so of cow pasture and woods. My neighbor's house and farm is, as we say in the south, a half mile as the crow flies. It was a beautiful walk home.