by Tim Austin
It’s hard, some days, to remember when I haven’t sat in this rocker, wrapped in a frayed sweater and staring out at nothing; sometimes the rain painting the glass, sometimes the snow, but always gray skies, in this place. I feel my age all the time now, like the cold, slowly whittling me down to a weak parody of the man you would have recognized, but it hardly matters now, does it? How long has it been since He called you back to him, Bess? Weeks, or is it months, already? I sat by the bedside and held your hand as I watched you go - did you know that? You were beyond feeling my touch by then, I think, but I still remember the feel of your hand in mine - and the warmth of tears.
Tim Austin lives in Fairhaven, Michigan, and likes to try his hand at writing when he can. More of his writing can be found here.