A small room.
A small room overlooking the city in which his past lives.
A small room furnished by others for an existence of less than might have been hoped.
Less than might have been dreamed.
Less than was possible.
His bare feet press against carpet flattened with the accumulated fluids and filth of leakage.
Years and years of spillage.
His small frame fits into the couch, fits into the hollows left by previous residents.
He sinks.
There is a slash of angry sunlight in the space between the heavy drawn curtains. He sits and waits for it to fade to gray. Waits for the grays that obscure the contrast between what was and what is . . . waits for the soothing caress of shadow. Waits for the clouded darkness that allows him to believe that there is nothing he has left unattended.
No sharp truths.
Only a small man of less.
Less than once was dreamed.
Shadows and fogged ghosts of evanescent form slide in and out of his view within the confines of this room.
He lets them slide.
He has no wish to reach for the past.
No wish to run his hands over the shards of so much broken history.
He sits and waits for the darkness that will soothe him. He fades in and out of consciousness . . . in and out of black as he waits for night’s embrace. He reaches clumsily for the glass on the small cheap table; he drinks the last of whatever he finds within.
He lights a cigarette.
Brings it to his lips. Inhales deeply. Exhales. Fills the space before his face with obscuring smoke.
Relaxes.
Drops the glowing ember into the empty glass.
Sleeps.
A dreamless sleep that is less sleep than absence.
The small shell of the man rests back against this wilted couch.
What is left of the man falls in upon itself.
Empty.
The man is absent.
Time passes.
The light changes.
Time passes.
Darkness falls.
Loose eyelids flutter as absence ends.
Form is taken.
The man slips back into consciousness.
Slips into the gray.
He is still seated in the hollowed couch.
He lights a cigarette.
Fills the space before him with obscuring smoke as he focuses on what is missing.
Focuses on the empty bottles.
The empty glass.
He closes his eyes as he smokes.
Makes the same plan he has made for every day he cares to remember.
A plan to fill himself with emptiness.
To numb himself.
A good plan.
He smiles crookedly to himself as he lights another cigarette with shaking fingertips and brings it to his lips.
He breathes deeply.
He leans forward to rest the lighter on the table.
A soft musical click.
He plays his thin fingers against the sides of the bottles, imagining a long ago bit of jazz as he beats out a rhythm. The cigarette bounces between his lips, a small baton. He is conductor and musician and his only witness.
All the bottles empty.
All the notes the same.
The man stands and walks to the bathroom. He tosses his cigarette into the stream of urine and then flushes. He turns to the small yellowed sink and splashes water. Drags dampened jittery hands over the contours of his face.
He reaches to smooth his hair back and adjust the rubber band that holds the grayed lengths in place.
He brings a hand up to scratch at his chin.
He strokes his beard.
Runs his palm down one length of jaw and then the other.
Inspects the ravaged image in the ravaged mirror.
He turns away.
He walks to the table by the couch and collects what he will need. His lighter, his cigarettes, the small bills and smaller coins. Into various pockets these items disappear.
He slides his bare feet into his shoes.
He pats his pockets to reassure himself that the items he has placed there are indeed within the cloth.
He stands unmoving.
Readying.
In the darkness.
Wanting to be filled with emptiness.
A good plan.
A moment, then, however.
A moment between plan and plan’s fruition, in which the past reaches for him with sharpened fingernails.
Grabs hold.
The man is held unsteadily in sway.
He sinks into the couch, which welcomes him into its hollowed lap.
Before him dance memoried small children, their faces freckled, their hair glossy in the sunlight. He reaches for a single tress and feels the ribboned silk glide across his roughened hands. He breathes the mingled scent of soap and sand and smoke. He hears the children’s laughter. He hears them call for his attention with waving hands and happy voices.
He feels the sharded pain of all that he has lost.
He feels the jagged edges of all that he has broken.
He sees the smile of his daughter as she reaches for him.
The man tries to rise from the couch.
The man tries to move, to leave this small room, to seek the emptiness with which he wants to be filled.
But he is instead filled with the memory of his children.
The smile of his small daughter.
She loves him.
So much was possible.
He chose less.
Less than he hoped.
Less than he dreamed.
And then . . .
In that small room that overlooks the city in which his past continues to live?
Sitting in this hollowed couch.
In this room designed for lowered expectations.
For less.
My father turns to shadows.
One last time.
