The man on my couch
With tears in his eyes and a smile on his face, he unloaded a modest amount of his personals into the van. The place that was once home to his hopes and dreams for his family was reduced to a somber tomb. It felt like death following a pointless struggle to keep someone alive on life support when the prognosis had been grim for far too long. The life line was severed. There was nothing. Just the empty shell of a memory. Dust. Mold. Some of her scattered remains lazily strewn about, but all was void of any meaning or life, as it had been for some time. A house survived by one man who tried too hard in all the wrong ways to make it a home.
He meant well in the only way he knew how, and he is still trying, God bless his heart, to resuscitate the dead. The heart beat is gone, dear one, and it’s not coming back. She’s been gone for some time now. He mourns in my living room for the death of what future he has left in his advancing years. She is gone, having started herself anew without him, and he is lost.