Cracked Window

It’s oddly comforting to walk along my street and see the Gnome. He’s always there, sheltered inside the hollowed-out base of a tree.

He’s been there longer than the five years I’ve been walking past. His expression never changes, even when vandals spray-painted him black and broke his arm, or passersby deposited flowers at his feet. But is he happy with what he sees, despite the ever-cheerful expression? Does he see what transpires “out there?”