Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026