a short, short by Justin Other Smith
The old man looked around the empty house, walked through the rooms. Stripped of furnishings, they seemed small and lifeless. The fireplace was clean but there was a crumpled paper on the floor in the corner. An unpainted board leaned against the wall. He’d lived here for 37 years, he and his wife. Raised three children here, a boy and two girls. The boy was dead now, a distant war. They had brought his body home in a flag-covered casket, saluted it, played Taps at the military funeral. Didn’t make any difference now. His wife had died in less than 3 months. She couldn’t seem to stop crying and one morning, she was dead. He’d thought she was just tired and sleeping in but when the morning dragged on, he went to check on her. She looked…peaceful.
The daughters came, packed up the house, took what had sentimental value to them, sold or gave away the rest. He’d heard them talking late at night, who was he gonna live with. The old man had the feeling neither one of them really wanted him, it was just expected of them and they had this duty…
The problem, as he saw it, was that he didn’t want to live with either one of them. Love them both but just couldn’t picture himself unpacking his clothing in one of their spare bedrooms.
And he sure as hell didn’t want to live in one of those assisted living places with a bunch of old people waiting to die. He remembered a television show, a British show called Waiting for God…He’d liked the show, he liked British shows for the most part but, he had never pictured himself living the part.
He walked out the front door, closed it behind him. Midway down the walk, he turned and looked back. Didn’t look like his house anymore. Just another empty house.
He threw his bag into the passenger seat of the old pickup, walked around and climbed into the drivers seat. He started the engine but he didn’t put the truck in gear. He sat there with the motor running wondering where in the hell he was going now...
No comments:
Post a Comment