Maureen Bond
RIP Jeff
The identity of Jeff may be a subject for speculation, but the truth is no one knows who he is, or if he ever perched himself on that little stool.
You never saw Jeff emerge from his boarded up door, or caught him whittling a spoon from a scrap of applewood, elbows resting on the window frame as he leaned out and watched you as you went by.
You never heard him call out “hi there”, as you scurried by in a rush when he was keen for human company, just to pass the time of day for a while. You didn’t catch him out of the corner of your eye, retreating into the darkness of the little house, to avoid your gaze.
We don’t know anything about Jeff, except what Maureen has shown us — the bright metal walls, the discarded scraps of possessions on the ground. The peeling paint, the rotting roof, the silver of aging wood.
We can’t ask the soul who tacked up the tribute. Don’t know how “Jeff” lived, how he died. But we know that someone once called this home, and that will have to do.
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