My Swansong

The boy next door was back from Uni and he and his mates were playing in their garage.

Illicit smoke and the smell of youth drifted over my fence along with some hastily plucked covers while I watered my garden. I listened as they tried to make their mark, assert a little individuality in their music. I ignored the sweet smoke although I was almost old enough to be their mother.

When they left later one sauntered past my garden. Guitar case in hand he nodded to me. I smiled in return as ‘Mrs Robinson’ started playing in my head.


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