The apartment

 He sat on the only chair in the apartment he had lived in fifty years ago. The wrecking ball was due tomorrow, and all but his memories would go with it. The old house, broken up into three units, was once a thing of beauty that would be a grand lady today instead of being torn down to make way for God knows what.

It was his first apartment since being discharged from the Navy. He was a twenty-two-year-old hell-bent on taking on the world, but settling on a factory job that proved to be the most boring job he would ever have. But his apartment gave him peace and a place to write. The dark wood with a smell of its own takes him back to when the house was a family home with a lot of room for children to run and play. He sometimes heard their soft voices and believed he got glances from them as the ink tried to keep up.

It was in the 70s when he lived in the apartment, often having friends over to drink wine and smoke a lot of weed. Zepplin played on the turn table, and incense choked the air. It was a safe place, a sanctuary for some who walked the roads of America and needed a shower and a night's sleep. Stories were told and listened to with interest, especially when a traveler told us about a place close to here where people would gather in numbers to camp out in a vast forest with meadows and waterfalls. There was singing and dancing to the sounds of guitars and flutes and naked people catching fireflies in the grassy meadows of Zore Vally.

His apartment had life in it, and although he could have done better, he remained there to learn from the travelers and love those who'd been with him for years. He only had a little time left as he opened a case full of his writings from over the years, where he wrote in what he called his wood palace. He read his life's work until the sun went down, and the old house gave him one last chance to write one more story, but he was done and thankful for his visit.

Hearing the roar of the wrecking ball, he picked up the old wooden chair and carried it outside, where the men in hard hats directed everyone to a safe area. The first swing tore through the roof, splintering the old dark wood he loved and sending it crashing down into a pile of junk. It was over, and all that remained was the faint smell of incense and the old chair he once sat on to write his life stories.

Mike 2024