coltkreeger
Phil Connors was relaxing in his study full of books, impressionist art, and framed french poetry his wife had written years ago. Peering out over the water and reflecting on life in his old age, he sat silent and still. A quizzical look crossed his face as he tried to think about the last few years. He always had trouble remembering how old he was, as he had already lived lifetimes in a day. "Seventy-four," he whispered as his memory finally served him the answer. He would be seventy-five in just another month of the 3rd of March. But today was the 3rd of February, and another dreaded 2nd of February had safely come and passed.
Today was a peaceful day. Cold with snow coming soon. It honestly reminded him of that day, bringing a tinge of fear to his mind like every cold snap. But, it had only happened once, and surely never again. And that was yesterday. He had 364 days to go without worrying about that particular fear. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice his grandson enter the room and begin to look over his books.