By Dan Verkys
He stirs from slumber, the darkness of the room still clinging to the illusion of night, thick black drapes block the morning sun as it peers through cracks in the curtain at the edges of the window, the curtains slowly losing their futile battle against the dominance of a new day’s light.
The chill of the morning is greeted with a cough, airways clearing after a cold winter night alone. Tired eyes slowly blink open, adjusting to the murky grey of the room, as tiny dust particles dance like golden stars floating in the cracks of light that pierce the darkness.
It’s silent, there are no cars hissing past the window, no children laughing at play, no distant dog barking for its master, the sounds of living friends, family, or spouse, are a distant memory, and no birds sing. There is just a deathly silence, the cruel reward for a life of sacrifice lived. Here begins the day of just another old man.
Dan Verkys 