101 Words

The tree is almost bare now. Only a few of us, our color changed to yellow and brown, cling to the branches. No butterflies hover over us. Even a gentle breeze causes chaos.

I watch a bunch of my neighbors take their plunge to the ground. I’m reconciled to the inevitable.

The lone old man on the balcony observes us closely. He is sometimes seen, eyes moist, holding a photograph of the woman who used to give him company till recently.

My hold on the branch is precarious. Another breeze. As I spin down, the man waves his frail hand slowly.

She huddled under the snow-covered bench, curled into a tight ball, trying to preserve every degree of warmth her emaciated body could generate. It was at least a week since she ate. Shivering wasted precious energy, but she could not help it.

A man walked past. She whimpered. You poor thing, he said, then he reached out, scooped her up, and wrapped her in his coat. Was he savior or predator? Whatever his intentions, following him could not be any worse  than the hunger and the cold.

She did not know what possessed her, but she licked his face.

He beamed.

I hear only the electrical hum, see the blankness of screens, rushing me to write.

Life is short, subordinate all else, Microsoft Word whispers. Email seduces me with promises of recognition. Ads for superfluity. News beckons with reminders of human perfidy. Netflix beckons with psychological drama and human perfidy.

Mom asks how my day was. What did I achieve? I only grunt. Swell, fine, I say on more verbose nights. When she wants me to watch Hitchcock Presents or other oldies, I have to “check things.” Her smile arrests me, beatific, wavering a tad.

I whisper contrition.

Electronic hums overwhelm regret.

He thinks he has found his match—sassy, smart, and intelligent. Talks only when needed, no drama involved. A far better choice than all his ex-wives combined.

He is also relieved that he doesn’t have to waste time browsing through the online dating sites anymore. Most of the girls he met there were shallow anyways—only concerned about physical beauty, which he doesn’t have. So he is glad to finally have someone who doesn’t care about how he looks.

As he is getting ready for bed, he decides to ask her one last question.
“Siri, do you know any bedtime stories?”

The hospital catering coordinator asks me if he wants applesauce or maybe pudding for dinner? I’m not family. I don’t know. He’s dying. Can’t she see how his palpitating heart makes his bloated belly quiver? Does applesauce really matter? The nurse stops by with an update I didn’t ask for. Can I describe his pain? How many hits of morphine has he had today? We’re here alone, he and I. Him asleep; me awake to honor the process. I have no authority. I don’t follow his religion. I’m here for our friendship. Dying is emotionally and physically exhausting for the living.

I took my weekly stroll to the graveyard during lunch. I thought, Good riddance!

Today, people strut around with ashes on their foreheads. Shucks, I think, missed it again!

It’s only a few years before this heart ticks out. Good knees: those with ‘em, you know how hated we are? Shut up already about your five dogs!

I handed five bucks to a bum—felt richer.

It’s a ripe afternoon for ice cream. Every day is.

Only in America, I live full-blooded. Wax my fantasies.

Then the wife calls. She says to pick up floss and detergent on the way home.