Many people see the elderly as almost a burden of society.
But when I see a man or women with grey hair, a wrinkled body.
I tend to think more about what they know, what that person has experienced.
Many of these people have suffered through much worse either it be a lost friend or a lost spouse.
Many have experienced love the way it used to be.
Today's love is often rushed or misjudged for other feelings.
This is a story of a man who wakes up everyday, puts his grey wool socks on.
Walks down the stairs holding the railing.
Puts the kettle on.
And sits down on the same plaid chair.
Over time the chair has worn, with small tears and minor miscolours on the arm rest as if it had been moist for a period of time, and stress marks on the cushion.
Sitting there the man sighs looking at the same glass backed clock on the wall.
An everyday routine he follows as if mandatory.
He has no reason to leave his house.
He has nothing he hasn't already seen, or anything new that his decrepit body can acomplish.
So the man sits.
Remembering for entertainment.
The things he did, accomplishments, mistakes.
Though in the past it still peeks intrest the changes he could have made, and the choices he thought best for himself, or others that he did make.
He thinks of the guilt he has built over his many years of life.
And a tear crawls down his cheek.
Almost startling him.
His eyes focus and he realizes that for the last minute his eyes have wandered from the clock on the wall.
An oval picture, a worn frame holds it as it sits on the mantel of the fireplace the man never used.
Too scared that with his dwindled legs he won't be able to help himself if it embers out onto the wooden floor and caught fire.
A sepia photo of a young woman.
Aged about 25, she had curled brunette hair and the most beautiful lips.
The photo framed his wife one day before the wedding.
The tear drips past his smile.
It only lasts so long to then look at the urn to the right.
The man's memory is only so good.
Being his age he has a condition known to be short term memory loss.
He remembers his friends that he out-aged and the kid that will no longer talk to him.
More tears go down his face as the closer to present time he remembers, the more people he once knew pass away.
Trembling in his chair the tears soak the arm rests.
An hour passes and the kettle the man turned on hasn't screamed.
Pushing himself up he enters the kitchen.
Upon his arrival a kettle stands empty on the hot plate glowing red.
For the last hour the water completely evaporated.
Leaving stainless steel scarred by the use.
The man looks at the kettle with a sign of failure.
Turning off the hot plate the man collects water from the faucet and drinks from there.
He grabs a bite from the cabinet, some small assortments of cheese and crackers.
Resting in his chair he sits in silence, noise only being broken by the sound of swallow.
A girl knocks on the door.
He sees her image in the mirror reflecting the front door.
Her head barely reaching the upper half window of the storm gate, she stands with a handkerchief tied neatly around her neck, and a smile on her face.
He doesn't answer.
Not because he doesn't want to make the girl's day.
But because of his pain.
He only feels as if his presence will cause her to feel his suffer.
So he sits there.
Simply waiting for her to go away.
About a minute passes and the girl cannot be seen anymore.
The man looks back at the clock and continues to remember.
Biscuit, the beagle that used to wag his tail so strong.
A proud dog, who stood with an attitude.
Now lays in the backyard underneath a wooden cross held by rusted nails.
Hours pass as the man waits for anything to happen, but like everyday nothing comes to bother him.
Involvement for anything seems to avoid him like a sick person in a world without cure.
The man crawls back upstairs and lays in bed.
Taking off his socks and closing his eyes.
Waiting for the day that he joins his friends in their demise.
But only to wake up the next morning.
To put on his grey wool socks, and grasp the railing as he walks downstairs to turn on the kettle.
Forgetting the day before, and remembering the long lost past.
~ Justice T