He sat in front of the TV set. He was my father. Badly crippled since a child, now his mind was almost gone too. His wife had just died. he was never to know it. All he knew was she was "away". His hand waved to the audience. "I don't know if they can see us, too,", he said.
A drummer on tv was playing. His hands moved as if playing the drums. Once so strong and capable, they no longer had any work to do.
Then he was gone. Part of my job was to burn his possessions. What little was left. It was dark in the room. The January cold, like my grief, would not relent. A fire in the fire place was the only light as I burned piles of greeting cards. some from his brothers. They were dead too. Atop the burning cards I placed his old high top shoes.
I read some of his cards before I burned them. They were signed by hands that were also stilled. Dead messages to a dead man.
Nothing lasts, love itself seemed gone. I looked again at the fire. My Dad's shoes were red hot. Even the laces were glowing light. Then I thought, they were glorified. He will be some day too.