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by Alexander Hornsby Here is a old man. He is walking in the desert. He is lost. Intentional? Here is the old man remembering how he got here. Arizona, that is. He is remembering the argument with his father, the yelling, the storming out of the house, the getting into his old car, the driving, driving, driving until he ran out of money for gas, sleeping in the back seat in a place called Phoenix. (A new life? Yes, why not?) Here is the old man remembering the years. So many years. Maybe he should have written. Or called. Maybe they think he is dead. or maybe they gave up on him long ago. or Maybe they are dead. Here is the old man lying on his back in the sand. He is staring up at the stars. So many stars. So many years. So many different jobs. Some friends (not very many friends). Here is the old man remembering the losing of those friends (drifted away or died or . . . ) until he realized he was alone (as we all are, eventually). Here is the old man remembering the day of the diagnosis: the big C. Then back to the cheap rooming house. All alone. Here is the old man realizing that none of that matters now. All that matters now are all those stars up there. So many stars. Copyright 2018. All rights reserved.
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