It is more than an eye sore. It is an affront. Skinny, flat-steal grey, it protrudes above all the actual growing things in the garden. It is not even behind her house. It is behind my house. Right behind it. It stares me down when I am in my dining room. It stares me down when I am in my living room. It towers over the hedge that separates my garden from hers and taunts me. Usually it is bare. Actually, for the past ten years since her husband died, it has prevailed in naked memorial. But now, the faded, gold, red, and black cloth is swaying from it once again, saluting this nations team during the European Soccer Cup. There it hangs, directly in my sights. I cannot ignore it, and I cannot make it go away.

On rare occasions, though, when I am out on the patio and there is a light breeze, I can close my eyes and listen for it. And it has happened that the metal cross bar, to which the flag is fixed, clinks up against the metal flag mast and sounds just like the rigging on a boat bobbing in a harbor. When that happens, I am not homesick. For that fleeting moment, I am home.