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 It didn’t bother him like most things once did when a rat scurried across the floor or when a leak appeared in the roof. He didn’t even flinch when a bolt of lightning struck his neighbor’s tree, missing his place by mere inches. 

Somehow, he had grown old, a mystery he would ponder as long as he didn’t look in a mirror. He once cared about things like most people did—keeping his place clean—but not about dusting off pictures or sweeping the floors every day; that was ludicrous. 

With no one to impress, he chose when to do what was needed, going about his tasks at his own pace, which was just a notch below slow. Trips to the grocery store required preparation, as he would shower for the first time in a few days, lay out clean or semi-clean clothes, and make a shopping list he never quite followed. Instead, he roamed the aisles, tossing whatever looked good into the only cart with a broken wheel. 

Once back home, he put the groceries away and shook the box of dog treats that his best friend had been patiently waiting for. Then he changed into his shorts, which he should have put in the dirty clothes basket hiding in the corner—maybe tomorrow. 

He didn’t care much about time, as he could predict his every move, just as he had done before and would do again. He sat by his keyboard, fingers poised, but his mind was quiet. It often took several attempts to latch onto a memory he wanted to write about. 

For the most part, he felt content, always waiting for a text or call from his kids and anxiously anticipating Saturday nights under the lights at youth football, when he received a week's worth of hugs and kisses. 

In his mind, he envisioned his future, and this is what he saw: not dust bunnies or clean countertops, not smudged pictures of his past or dirty dishes in the sink. His life had been mapped out for him long ago, when the dreams of boys transformed into the memories of the old. 

Mike 2025