I was scrubbing dinner plates in a soapy sink bath while Juniper drowned cookies in a mug of milk at the table — both of us admiring our new and dreamy backyard garden at sunset — when the old man traipsed into view. I thought maybe he was drunk. He looked harmless and ancient — Father Time, himself. But he also seemed oriented with the land, reaching for pruning shears set on a tree burl in the heart of the backyard, from the trunk of a maple with its fiery canopy offset over a tiny masonry chapel. The old man snipped an heirloom rose from a tunnel-like trellis, returned the shears to the burl ledge, then disappeared into the chapel. 

“What’s he doing in my doll house?” June asked. 

At the showing, my broker informed me that the 10’ by 10’ chapel was a registered historic landmark, over 125 years old, and that I’d be expected to keep the structure in good repair, like for like. She also told me visitors from the churchgoing community might show up unannounced after I got the keys, until word got round that the property changed hands. I told the broker I wasn’t a big fan of churchgoers. To which she knelt in front of June, who was gripping my hand, and whispered, “Wouldn’t it make a lovely doll house?” 

I filled another mug with milk, then parked myself next to June with a stack of cookies. “I didn’t know those pruning shears were there,” I said. 

We ate and waited. The chapel door faced the foothills, out of sight. The porthole stained-glass windows were too tiny to reveal any movement or insight to what Father Time was doing. June eventually grew disinterested and wanted to draw. We picked through a dozen U-Haul boxes in the living room before finding her art supplies and carting everything to the table. I wiped our crumbs, cleared our mugs, then sat at the table again, alternating glances between her growing image and the chapel, until twilight was at hand. 

 “That’s my favorite one so far,” I said, standing, stretching. She’d fleshed out our Raymond: his easy smile, the faint red coloring in his beard, and the blue overcast color of his eyes. She had him dressed in the blue-gray Pendleton button-up I’d given him for his 40th, to make his eyes pop. I got lost in the portrait, until she pulled it out of the paper pad and asked me to sharpen her colored pencils. I sharpened them one by one and wondered if she knew I would borrow the box where she stored all his sketches after she’d fallen asleep and flip through them under a light on the sofa. She only seemed interested in his face, in remembering his spirit. But she also added his favorite shirt collars and Mariner caps, even his John Lennon reading glasses at times, each variation catalogued in the box that lived beside her bed. 

I flicked on the garden lights — there were dozens, garnishing the yard like backlit pearls — and pushed through the back door. “His smile is spot on,” I said, before the door latched. I recalled his grins as I followed the deck steps to the red brick herringbone path that spun me past birdbaths, a koi pond fed by a gurgling fountain, manicured boxwoods and dwarf evergreens, to the rose trellis tunnel and tree burl. I examined the shears and thought about his playful gestures and the way they made me feel electrified and anchored as I knocked on the glass door of the chapel. 

“It’s about time you checked in on me,” Father Time said. He waved me in, told me to take a seat. His beard was stunning — snow white and long yet manicured — and his baggy clothes and old man slippers looked clean and expensive up close. “I’m here for you,” he added. 

“For me?” I said, faking confusion. This confirmed he’d been pulling the cork. 

He padded the sturdy oak pew, which looked just as old and beautiful as the structure itself.

I decided to play along, to get him out of June’s doll house, off our property. I thought I might need to call him an Uber, but as I parked myself on the pew a few feet away, I smelled Ray’s cologne Blue De Chanel, not booze. 

The sandalwood-grapefruit scent jarred me. I squinted. Images of Ray burst into my brain. I heard his voice, his baritone, and felt his hand on my back. When I peeked back at Father Time, the old man was still there, but Ray was there, too, overlayed like a hologram. They drew me close, pulled me into them and their beards. Ray spoke again but I couldn’t make sense of it, not at first. I wanted to race out of the chapel and never leave their clutch — both at the same time. Then I heard him say it again: “We never got to say goodbye.” 

I ran my hand over their head, where the doctor had tried to explain the ruptured aneurysm, but nothing felt amiss. Their hair was thick. They ran their thumbs over my forehead, rubbed my ear lobes, and kissed me softly. That stopped my brain from disbelieving. Ray had always loved my ears, my big ass Dumbo ears. I slung my arm around them, leaned into them. Ray praised me for deciding to take the job change, for the flexibility it offered to look after June, and downshifting to a smaller city. God how he must’ve known I needed to hear that. We talked nonstop about June, about her art and how tall she was getting. We talked about the garden and how much he would’ve loved manicuring every square inch of the space. Then they pulled me up and held me. They nuzzled my ears and led me outside — where they ceased to exist — and the old man held me steady as we circled back along the zig-zag path. 

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Kyle Bilinski lives in a new-old house in Boise with his family. His writing can be found in places like Iron Horse Literary Review and The Twin Bill.