The Old Man
Dear readers,
it was a quiet morning for this old man that day. Standing in his grey pajamas, he watched as the sunlight peaked over the hills. He was sipping coffee, the grip of his wrinkled, freckled hands firm. He fixed his gaze on every detail his eye perceived. Birds chirping, bus doors sighing, car doors banging, passersby yawning. The velvet hue of the morning cast a beam on his unshaved face. He scratched absently. Finishing his drink, he smacked his lips and set the cup on the table. The kitchen was polished. Tops clean, cupboard doors closed. He squeezed through a gap between the chair and the wall and danced to his bedroom. His best suit was hanging on a coat rack. The old man made no sounds as he dressed down. He posed himself in front of a spotless mirror and dressed. Composed, he buttoned up his shirt. In the end, he put on his jacket and grabbed his hat from the dresser, put it on his head, and stepped out of the house through the front door.
The old man took a breath of the spring air and was greeted by a familiar, warm tingle in his nose. Roses in his garden blossomed. Picking up a cane resting next to a wooden bench, he stepped into the street. He stood on the sidewalk. People passed him by, none of them giving the old man a look. The traffic, slowed down by buses turning to their stops, thundered. But the old man didn’t go to catch a bus. In fact, he turned away from the noise and the people. Leaning against the cane, he started walking up the street towards the hills. Every now and then, he stopped and looked around, taking in his surroundings or pointing at buildings, trees, and statues. The pedestrians who were walking past, if they inspected him, might’ve seen a mist in his eyes. The old man seemed to enjoy every detail. Red townhouses, sturdy iron benches, streetlamps. Everything seemed to bring back memories. The old man trudged up the hill. There was an alleyway crammed between two houses. The old man ran through it and found himself opposite a small stone fence. He opened a small wooden gate and continued along the vineyards. He fixed his eyes just above the vines and saw the green cascading down hills. He walked up to a vine branch and ran his fingers over the leaves. He looked deep into the row, wiped the sweat from his brow, and took a deep breath. He propped himself up with his cane and started trudging again. The incline increased, and he was no longer paying attention to his surroundings.
He breathed heavily as the climb came to an end. He stood for a few seconds, enjoying the view. Proud of himself, the old man picked up a pace on the flat. And after a short while, he spotted what he was hiking towards. A single plane tree. There was nothing else around, just vineyards, stone fences, and dirt roads. The old man strolled under the shade of the tree, took a deep breath, and gazed upon the small town in the valley. He patted this majestic tree as an old friend. Sat down with a sigh and pressed his back against the trunk. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small locket, cracked it open, and stared at the photograph inside. It was a beautiful woman, her look warm and tender, her smile inviting and kind. The old man smiled. He let the locket stand in the palm of his hand and spoke for the first time, his voice raspy. "It's been a long twenty years." He looked around once more, taking three deep breaths as if to take in everything around him. He pressed his hat into his eyes. And here at this destination, in the shade of a plane tree as branching as life itself, the old man passed away.
Regards,
Jakub
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written sometime in winter 2016/2017