He planted a new sign—larger this time. “PRIVATE PROPERTY – DO NOT ENTER.” He painted it himself in block letters and reinforced it with a wooden post and rope. By morning, someone had clipped the rope and pushed his sign down.
Clarence stared at it for a long time. The disrespect didn’t feel careless anymore. It felt practiced. He walked the edge of the property, checking damage. One of his ceramic bird planters had been knocked over. The wings had chipped off. The soil had been kicked like it was nothing.
Another rose bush was missing half its blooms. The blossoms lay crushed against a tire groove that cut diagonally across the bed. His hands trembled slightly as he knelt down to fix what he could. The symmetry he had worked so hard on—it was unraveling, one shortcut at a time.
The lawn no longer looked cared for. It looked stepped on. Trampled. The mulch beds had stopped looking like framed garden features and now looked like soft targets. Clarence ran a gloved hand through the torn soil and stood back up, jaw clenched. Something had to give. He wouldn’t let it rot.