Every day he sits by the window, partially
hidden by dusty venetian blinds,
watching the neighbours rouse, going off
on their day. He has nowhere to be, smoking
cigarettes to their filter, and the coffee
is always bitter. He owns a scrim of fine art
that holds little value anymore.
His only thoughts are on a small graveyard around
the corner. Obsessed with death (the departure),
he thinks about those gone, and if they had
seen a light when leaving the world.
He searches morning papers for obituaries:
“Beloved wife, Gladys Moore dies at 65,
survived by her spouse, Anthony,
an insurance salesman at Met
Life. Services will be held at Wedgewood
Crematory, March 4 and 5 at 3:00 p.m.
(Bring some flowers, please.)”
“No, children?” he says to no-one.
He remembers Gladys — how they played
at the park on summer days, waiting for
storms to come in as the skies formed dark
bruises; excited they’d laugh. She was
pretty with auburn hair — a special
curl falling on her cheek, always in the same
fashion … as if she placed it there for him.
He lays down the newspaper, resting his
bifocals on the edge of disenchantment,
takes a nap, dreams of eulogies.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Tara Roberts challenged me with “”The Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated” – Mark Twain” and I challenged http://www.bradmack.com/ with “A dog and a cat meet Saint Frances on the River Rhine”.