There is a house on forty-third street. In it lives a man whose cheeks are as wrinkled as his thirty year old sheets. Vines wrap themselves around the pillars of his porch, one for each year his heart has continued beating. Laughter of grandchildren now grown and gone still echoes through the hollow walls of his empty home. The vibrant colors of the walls have faded to a dull gray that matches his eyes. The dripping faucet in the kitchen is his only companion late at night. Happiness fades like the roses he leaves on his wife's grave, but the memories never do.
-n.f.
