It was calm. Both outside and in as he sat on his bed, looking out the window. It was sunny, nice, though he could feel the cold chill seeping through the cracks of the window. He pulled the comforter tighter around his shoulders. The image was blurred, the grass and trees melding together against the fuzzy blue sky. He feel the suns small bit of warmth on his thigh, the light resting there from where it filtered through the window. From the blurs, he could tell that it was windy, as the greens swayed from side to side.
He lifted his hands to his face, feeling the wrinkles that had gathered there, around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes, gathering in the form of crows feet. His hand drifted back down to his knee, feeling the soft cotton fabric of his light blue and white pinstriped pajama pants. It ran from his knee, the fabric warmed from the sun to the sheets next to him, soft and clean, wrinkle free and cool. He ran his hand over it slowly, his eyes now drifting to the blurred pale color of his skin and the white of the sheets. He felt the pillow, the indent of his head still present, still warm. His hand drifted from the pillow to the nightstand, feeling the digital clock there, it's time blurred, to the base of the lamp that was rough and felt like sandpaper, nothing like the soft sheets of his pillow. The fingertips drifted from the lamp to his glasses, smooth and cold from sitting in the same spot over night.
He picked the glasses up, unfolded them and slipped them on, the world coming into focus. He looked back outside, watching the trees sway, the leaves beginning to change color, progressing from green to hues to yellows, oranges, and reds. He let out a sigh at the sight of a child on a tire swing, his black hair mussed, sticking up at odd angles at the back. The shirt was too big, almost swallowing the child's small frame along with the faded blue jeans that seemed to hang off his hips and threaten to fall even though he sat firmly in place on the swing, his legs pushing back and forth, the bottom's of his bare feet covered in dirt.
He knew that the child's eyes were green like his own from behind the thick black framed glasses just like his own. He watched, feeling the chill of the cold from the window next to his bed. He pulled the comforter tighter around his shoulders, feeling it's warmth like an embrace from an old friend. A sigh passed from his chapped lips, wetting them with the warm spit of his mouth as he watched. He lifted his hand yet again to his face, this time turning his eyes from the boy on the swing to the mirror that hung on the wall at the foot of his bed. Who he saw there, he couldn't recognize. He knew it was him, and from the feel of his leathered hands, it was his weathered, pale wrinkled skin he was touching. Just like the man in the mirror. The same white comforter, the same light blue and white pinstriped pajamas, the same hair that stuck up in odd angles at the back, the same thick black rimmed glasses, the same green eyes.
He looked at the man and the man looked back at him. He lowered his hand from his face, resting it on his knee and so did the man. He looked back out the window at the child and so did the man. The child was still swinging, his legs pumping back and forth, the tire moving up and down while also slowly spinning, turning from side to side. He looked at the child and the child looked back at him. Their eyes meeting through the window. The child smiled, barring his small pearly white teeth, his legs still pumping as he lifted an arm and waved, the other holding steadfast to the tire. The man raised his hand in greeting or at least what he thought was a greeting, because, he wondered, how could one greet another through a sheet of glass.
It was the first thought he had in a while. Most actions acted on just that, actions and not thoughts. His bushy gray eyebrows creased together in thought, forming deeper wrinkles in his forehead. His hair was shaggy, thin, and white though a bit fuller in the back where it stuck up. If he looked up, he could see the ends of his fringe, hanging limply and choppy, needing a cut. His eyes focused on the window, dirty from the rain that had dried there.
He thought of the window and of the boy on the other side. He thought of who the boy was, remembering that it was his grandson. He thought of the comforter which his daughter had wrapped around him earlier when he had woken. He thought of the mirror and the reflection that he saw. He remembered looking at it and smiling, when his hair was just staring to turn gray and the only wrinkles on his face were the crows feet that emerged when he smiled. He remembered the woman that used to share the bed he sat on with him, remembered her red hair and her pink skin, her shoulder's covered in freckles, browned from the sun. He remembered the two children they had, the daughter who looked like him, and the son who looked too much like an old friend that it hurt.
He remembered the fights, the sounds of screaming voices and sobbing hiccups. He remembered the tight hugs and the soft hair that tickled his nose. He remembered the numerous pictures that covered the night stands, dressers, and walls. Family, he thought.
His eyes focused in on the boy who was now off the swing and at his window, his own eyebrows creased together in thought, forming wrinkles on his smooth, small forehead that was covered with a fringe. The boy placed a hand on the window. It was small, the palm pink and smooth with youth as the green eyes bore into the man on the other side. The man put his hand up against the window, over the small boy's covering it. He felt the warmth from the other side and watched as the boy's thoughtful frown relaxed into a smile and then mouth the words "I love you grandpa."
His lower lip quivered as he closed his eyes, feeling the hot sting of salt tears. He opened them and smiled, resting his forehead against the glass as he looked at the boy and mouthed back "I love you too."
The End.
He lifted his hands to his face, feeling the wrinkles that had gathered there, around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes, gathering in the form of crows feet. His hand drifted back down to his knee, feeling the soft cotton fabric of his light blue and white pinstriped pajama pants. It ran from his knee, the fabric warmed from the sun to the sheets next to him, soft and clean, wrinkle free and cool. He ran his hand over it slowly, his eyes now drifting to the blurred pale color of his skin and the white of the sheets. He felt the pillow, the indent of his head still present, still warm. His hand drifted from the pillow to the nightstand, feeling the digital clock there, it's time blurred, to the base of the lamp that was rough and felt like sandpaper, nothing like the soft sheets of his pillow. The fingertips drifted from the lamp to his glasses, smooth and cold from sitting in the same spot over night.
He picked the glasses up, unfolded them and slipped them on, the world coming into focus. He looked back outside, watching the trees sway, the leaves beginning to change color, progressing from green to hues to yellows, oranges, and reds. He let out a sigh at the sight of a child on a tire swing, his black hair mussed, sticking up at odd angles at the back. The shirt was too big, almost swallowing the child's small frame along with the faded blue jeans that seemed to hang off his hips and threaten to fall even though he sat firmly in place on the swing, his legs pushing back and forth, the bottom's of his bare feet covered in dirt.
He knew that the child's eyes were green like his own from behind the thick black framed glasses just like his own. He watched, feeling the chill of the cold from the window next to his bed. He pulled the comforter tighter around his shoulders, feeling it's warmth like an embrace from an old friend. A sigh passed from his chapped lips, wetting them with the warm spit of his mouth as he watched. He lifted his hand yet again to his face, this time turning his eyes from the boy on the swing to the mirror that hung on the wall at the foot of his bed. Who he saw there, he couldn't recognize. He knew it was him, and from the feel of his leathered hands, it was his weathered, pale wrinkled skin he was touching. Just like the man in the mirror. The same white comforter, the same light blue and white pinstriped pajamas, the same hair that stuck up in odd angles at the back, the same thick black rimmed glasses, the same green eyes.
He looked at the man and the man looked back at him. He lowered his hand from his face, resting it on his knee and so did the man. He looked back out the window at the child and so did the man. The child was still swinging, his legs pumping back and forth, the tire moving up and down while also slowly spinning, turning from side to side. He looked at the child and the child looked back at him. Their eyes meeting through the window. The child smiled, barring his small pearly white teeth, his legs still pumping as he lifted an arm and waved, the other holding steadfast to the tire. The man raised his hand in greeting or at least what he thought was a greeting, because, he wondered, how could one greet another through a sheet of glass.
It was the first thought he had in a while. Most actions acted on just that, actions and not thoughts. His bushy gray eyebrows creased together in thought, forming deeper wrinkles in his forehead. His hair was shaggy, thin, and white though a bit fuller in the back where it stuck up. If he looked up, he could see the ends of his fringe, hanging limply and choppy, needing a cut. His eyes focused on the window, dirty from the rain that had dried there.
He thought of the window and of the boy on the other side. He thought of who the boy was, remembering that it was his grandson. He thought of the comforter which his daughter had wrapped around him earlier when he had woken. He thought of the mirror and the reflection that he saw. He remembered looking at it and smiling, when his hair was just staring to turn gray and the only wrinkles on his face were the crows feet that emerged when he smiled. He remembered the woman that used to share the bed he sat on with him, remembered her red hair and her pink skin, her shoulder's covered in freckles, browned from the sun. He remembered the two children they had, the daughter who looked like him, and the son who looked too much like an old friend that it hurt.
He remembered the fights, the sounds of screaming voices and sobbing hiccups. He remembered the tight hugs and the soft hair that tickled his nose. He remembered the numerous pictures that covered the night stands, dressers, and walls. Family, he thought.
His eyes focused in on the boy who was now off the swing and at his window, his own eyebrows creased together in thought, forming wrinkles on his smooth, small forehead that was covered with a fringe. The boy placed a hand on the window. It was small, the palm pink and smooth with youth as the green eyes bore into the man on the other side. The man put his hand up against the window, over the small boy's covering it. He felt the warmth from the other side and watched as the boy's thoughtful frown relaxed into a smile and then mouth the words "I love you grandpa."
His lower lip quivered as he closed his eyes, feeling the hot sting of salt tears. He opened them and smiled, resting his forehead against the glass as he looked at the boy and mouthed back "I love you too."
The End.