The Iron Gate

Some time in the past the old man had boarded all the windows to keep intruders out. He had shut himself away from the world.

Each day at dawn he peeked out through his front door and made sure no one was on the street. Then he sauntered out slowly to the newspaper lying on his walk. So that he did not have to encounter the newspaper boy, he put the exact amount for that day in an envelope that he had hung on his porch.

He always checked to make sure that the Iron Gate that protected his home from intrusion was latched. Other than the news boy and the kid from the grocery, no one ever even tried to enter his yard.

The old man quickly shut the door behind him as though he was being pursued. He was not happy, but at least he was safe with his Iron Gate to protect him.

He had put the gate up the year his wife and daughter passed away. He could not stand looking at the unkempt garden that they had so loved. He felt that if he stayed inside and saw nothing of them, the pain would one day pass. It had stayed with him all these years.

One day he heard a knock at the door. He knew that he had left the right amount for the paper boy and grocery lad. It could not be them.

He peeked through the cracks in the boards on the front window but he could see no one. If he didn't answer he knew who ever it was would leave. He waited ten minutes, then ten minutes more. There was no other knock.

He carefully stuck his head out through the door. He didn't see anyone. He was safe.

"Mister, I brought you a flower!" A soft voice said from the direction of the old bench.

"What..." He started to shout but the young girl looked so like his daughter.

"We just moved in next door. It was sticking through the Iron Gate. Do you think it needs water?" The small child asked.

Tears welled in the old man's heart as he sunk to his knees. The memories flooded in; good memories. "I think it does."

He pushed himself to his feet. "Stay here child." He returned from the house in a few minutes with a large glass with water in it.

"Do you know what kind of flower this is?" He said as though he had never been isolated.

"No sir!" The soft voice of the child replied.

"It's a rose, a rose called a Joseph's Coat. Would you like to hear the story?"

"Yes sir!"

"Once there was a man named Joseph and..." He forgot the pain as he told the story.