Autumn's Winter: The Story of Angry Old Guy
By D M Sowb
The old man
held his back, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he rose from
bed. He was thin and gaunt, his hair grey and matted, and his skin pale
except for the brown blotches of benevolent skin cancer the sun had bought
to his cheeks, and the deep-creased scars a lifetime of working on the land
had bought to his arms and hands. None of the scars were fresh. They were as
old as erosions in the fruitless desert. Indeed, everything about him was
old, apart from his eyes, which today sparkled like the water had as he fed
it to his livelihood, the plants, all those years before. His eyes sparkled
this morning because he knew it was the day Billy would come to visit. Many
years had past since the old man’s wife had passed. Soon after that his
daughters visits had become perfunctory, before they stopped completely. He
had lost his friends as well as the women in his life, but he still had his
Grandson Billy.
It had been a bad week for the old man. The pain in his back was worse now
then he could ever remember, though he knew his memory too was liable to let
him down. His weekly visit from the kindly man next door had stopped some
weeks ago, though he knew not why. He had pondered this every morning around
this time for the last week, but it did not trouble him this morning because
he knew today that Billy was coming, and the lonely house would once again
be filled with the laughter and chatter of youth.
Washing his face now in the cold bathroom water, the man felt ashamed. His
own faint memories of his grandfather were so very special to him, memories
of the rotund kindly figure, bathed in the golden glow of the sunlight
spraying through the porch windows where he would spend the afternoons, red
face punctuated by an impeccable silver moustache, telling fantastic tales
from a world now gone. The old man’s own image sickened him in comparison.
He had wanted Billy to share in that feeling, to hear great stories bathed
in that golden sunlight, but the old man’s life had never taken him further
than the fields on which he worked, no kind of inspiration for the young boy
he loved. ‘Come now, old man,’ he thought to himself, splashing cold water
into his face and over his arms ‘you know the joy you bring to the young
boys face, and soon he will be here, so stop these thoughts of a world which
has long since escaped you’.
The old man slowly made his way downstairs, breath failing and his back
burning with every step. Carefully he made his way through the perpetually
shaded front room and took place in his favourite chair. A beam of morning
sunlight made it’s way through a crack in the curtain, and fell warm across
his face and soon he was in a light slumber. His dreams of sitting on his
grandfather’s lap, comforted by the smell of fresh pies cooking in his
grandmothers kiln, were soon interrupted by a knocking at the door. “Billy!”
the old man gathered his thoughts and exclaimed, with a haste that would
have taken him by surprise had his mind not been filled with the blindness
of pure joy. The knock came again. “Billy, come in!” he croaked. It had been
so long since he had reason to utter words, that they no longer came without
effort. Sure enough this time he heard the door open, and he could hear the
child’s footsteps in the pantry making there way towards him. Soon Billy
stood at the door of the living room, his curly golden locks shimmering in
the sunlight which now sprayed into the room.
“Hewwo Gwanpa” he murmured, thumb stuck in his grinning mouth. “I have come
to see you!”
“Come on Billy, come and sit on Grandpa’s knee” the old man croaked, broad
grin from cheek to cheek. Billy came trotting over and the old man hoisted
him up, no longer feeling the agony in his back. “Listen Billy, I want to
tell you some important things today.”
“Ok gwanpa, I wike talking to you”
“Ok Bill…. B.…” the old man began to splutter, one of the coughing fits that
had become all too familiar had returned. “Billy…”
“Yes Gwanpa?”
“… Billy, always remember that every great journey begins with a single
step… d…” the old man regained his composure, each word now burning his
throat as he suppressed the coughing “don’t be afraid to take life by the
scruff of the neck and try something special with each day. But if you even
think about going NEAR my woodshed, and playing with my WOOD I’ll give you a
BEATING you’ll never ever forget.”