William Walter Williams felt the groan of protest every joint in his body made as he reached an old, wrinkled hand to the bible. The soft sunlight shone on the cracked leather cover and yellowed pages as his hand slowly traced the letters and his lips mumbled the passages. His mother had given him this bible, and it was the only thing he had left of her- an impossibly old relic of another time. When Will felt particularly melancholy, he’d open it to the back page, where his mother’s terrible handwriting danced across the page as gracefully as a calligraphers, spelling out his approximate birth date and the prayers they had come up with in their old shack.
Feeling the memories wash over him, he stood and dressed, in his customary pastel button up and khaki trousers, trying to ignore the burning in his fingers. Before he left the house, he reached for the red aluminum walker that had gradually become a daily necessity. Even though he’d used it for years, the cold metal felt foreign under his callused palms, a reminder of his impending mortality. The air was cool and crisp against his face as he stepped outside, a reminder of the winter that was coming quickly to the town. Will wished he'd have thought of a jacket before, but he feared if he went back inside, he wouldn’t have the motivation to come back out, so he resolved to deal with the hard bite and inch his way to the bus stop down the short road.
It hadn’t always been like this, William Walter Williams recalled as he sat on the bench. Once, I was a tall man, stronger than an oak, and fine being simple, almost taking pride in my low education. How he regretted that! Oh, what would he had given at age forty, as his strength weakened, becoming nothing to take pride in, to have been small and frail and intellectual. He was a soldier, and then a handyman, and there were no jobs for a weak handyman, he soon found, as he received less and less work as the years of overwork started taking its toll on the man, leaving him all but useless. He had no wife, no brothers, no cousins or children. William Walter Williams was alone, and weak, and stupid, and had nothing but his mother’s old bible, kept as safe and precious as one might keep a child.
As the bus rolled to a stop William Walter embarked, leaving one cracked and yellowed book forgotten as he struggled his walker onto the bus.
