Bent in half, he hobbles, looks like he’s a hundred, and is a widower now. Visitors are rare. He used to yell, “I’m home!” into his empty apartment, every time he crossed the threshold. A baritone, maybe? He stops the delivery people and tries to talk to them. I could go over, but the weather is all we have in common.
When I am as indifferent as his sons, I don’t want to hear his voice. But late at night, solitary for all the wrong reasons, I’m happy to hear him singing, loudly and alone.
The weather might be enough.
Stephen D. Gibson’s short fiction has appeared in The Citron Review, Vestal Review, 100WordStory, Wigleaf, Fractured Lit, and The Ekphrastic Review. His work has been nominated twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction. More brief prose can be found at stephendgibson.com.
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