Fiction

Abstract

The old man looked up from his crossword puzzle. It got dark early now in the northern latitudes. The only light in the room came from the glow of the reading lamp that made an island of light on the worn carpet. Outside, the heavy snowflakes fell, each landing silent as a catspaw on the deck, now speckled with white. A fire burned fitfully in the hearth, an occasional flickering flame appearing for a moment and then extinguishing itself in a thin stream of smoke. The wood, just brought in from the pile outside, hissed and spat. The old man lumbered over to the fireplace to try to coax some warmth out of it. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace was a solitary Christmas card. There was the picture of a family: husband, wife, and two teenaged children. He still received the odd card but it had been many years since he had sent any. It wasn’t that he disapproved of them. He just didn’t seem to have the energy. He had thought one year that he would send out the kind of newsy Christmas letter that was becoming increasingly common. He rather fancied inventing one along the lines of “Hallo, Friendi This has been a good year for our family, Elsbeth had her second baby in July—still no sign of a regular boyfriend, so she took a day job in addition to her busy on-call schedule in the evening—etc., etc.” In the end, it hadn’t been very funny and he lost interest. Declining interest in things around him seemed to be an increasing part of his reality. Age was laying a thickening veneer around him, making it more difficult to see the present, but reflecting the past with increasing precision. He pulled himself together and looked at the Christmas …