He was trapped
in the sweltering heat
of his one-bedroom apartment.
He would start his day
with a guttural sigh.
The weight
increased with every passing second
until it became unbearable
by late afternoon.
On lonely nights,
he collapsed
into the overwhelming gravity
of loneliness,
or quietly resigned
to deep slumber.
This routine
continued for decades.
The bandits of time
ravaged
his innocence,
inner peace,
and existence itself.
His questions
bounced off
the stone walls –
never answered.
When his spine
was crushed under the weight,
he stopped asking any.
Last autumn,
a few weeks
after his birthday,
his friend
reminded him
he’s into his eighties now.
He casually added:
Think about this,
we’re the ancestors.
The old man’s thoughts
and everything that came after
hinged on that line
for long hours.
Sometime after dusk,
he went into the tiny kitchen,
made himself a cup of strong
coffee,
drew the blinds,
took a deep breath,
and for the first time in his life,
stared amusingly
at the dance of raindrops
on the windowpane.
