A quiet house

 It's quiet in the old house as a man of the same age sits alone, remembering when quiet was just a wish. He looks around at stuff accumulated over time, things that meant something to him, and most wouldn't understand. The Led Zeplin poster from a concert he took his grandson to, not the real deal, but good impersonators just the same.  There was a clay head that looked like Jesus, holding incense sticks, and two ventriloquist dummies sitting in a chair that totally freaked out his daughter. There was an old-school stereo that didn't work, and two speaker boxes sat there in silence. Snow globes and a stack of photo albums that transported him back in time when his skin still fit and his teeth were his own. A steamer trunk filled with stuff that required moving everything that sat on top if he wanted to open it, which he did occasionally, usually on a rainy day for some reason. Inside were forgotten memories like his Navy cruise books, belt buckle, and a Zippo lighter with the ship's name. Two CD demos of songs he wrote, but that few ever heard except himself. Handwritten tablets of poems and two paperback editions of his first published books. A small box containing three bracelets hand-made out of beads he wore for years, along with a wrist watch and a pocket watch that his dad gave to him long ago.

It's quiet in the old house as he dozes off for a bit, awakened by a passing car playing some sort of music way too loud for this retirement community, probably someone's grandchild here for a visit. He shuffled to the kitchen, where he knew every little thing would be when he came looking, like coffee filters that he kept in the pantry and somehow ended up in a cabinet above the sink. Eventually, he'd get the old-school perculator he'd had for too many years to recall put on the burner and forgotten about until he heard the last couple of whatever you call it purks, I guess, when the coffee was ready. No coffee pods or fancy machines for him. The same held true for cooking. He had one black cast-iron skillet in which he made his supper, which never got washed; it was just wiped clean after use. A silverware drawer with two of each fork, knife, and spoon was all he needed, and he couldn't see any reason to have more.
He had a few fridge magnets with drawings his grandkids made for him and some black-and-white pictures taken with a Kodak Instamatic camera, memories of days gone by, but forever in his heart. It's a quiet house, his quiet house, that makes noises from worn-out floorboards and a dripping faucet he'd get around to fixing some day, maybe. There's the quiet snoring of his dog and companion of twelve years, his shadow, and best friend he hopes stays around for a long time, but he finds himself missing him already. Time doesn't stand still, but the quiet never lets him down.

Mike  2026