Anthony

Anthony lives in a little white house outside of town. He makes his appearances scarce to the townsfolk, but it seems as if I have known him all my life.
He's 23 years old, and quite handsome. He has blond hair with pale blue eyes, and stands nice and tall. He came here only four years ago, so we regard him as a newcomer.
I go out to visit him about once a week. I ride my bike over at around noon, and come back home around dinnertime.
Anthony's house is surrounded by trees and flowers. He tends to every living plant around his house as if it were his only son. When I arrive, I'll set my bike down on the dirt path that leads to his house. The path, like the house, is surrounded by trees, their branches forming a canopy over my head. He'll come out and hand me a glass of ice tea, and then we'll sit on his porch and talk about our lives. I love his porch. It's the best thing about his house. He has two rocking chairs, and in between them, a little table to put our drinks. It's on the porch ceiling, though, that I find my fascination. He's drilled hooks onto the ceiling, and then from the hooks, he hangs a piece of colored string. Dangling on the end of each string in an old key. Once, a couple of years ago, I decided that I would count all the keys that are hanging. I lost count at around a hundred and twenty, and the numbers have increased since then.
I asked him once, why he had keys hanging from the ceiling. He looked at me, then up at the keys, and said, "each key stands for a person that I care for. Whenever I hear them chiming when the wind blows through, I remember to pray for them." I then proceeded to ask if there was a key for me. He nodded, and showed me a simple yet beautiful brass key.
When he's not gardening, and when I'm not there, he writes. He writes short stories that he's been trying to get published for years. So far, there hasn't been any success. I don't know why though. I've read them all, and they are some of the most beautiful stories I have ever read.
I'm always reluctant when it's time to leave. Though every time,  he'll hand me his best flower from his gardens. He says it's a sign of gratitude for the time I spent with him. I've told him that I don't need any sign of thanks. Time with Anthony is time well spent.