Cover created in CANVA using free elements.
On that Saturday morning, the world was grey. The sparrow did not even seek to understand the sky, instead, he chose silence. The tumbling clouds rumbled and clashed and the grey bearded man sat in his charcoal grey armchair. In prayer, with penitence, he mumbled and cried out. He did not know if it was fear or hope that made his mouth move in such a manner, but tears fell on his grey jacket and turned it to a darker shade of grey.
He had lost his wife many years earlier to an insidious illness which had plagued her body. She was now ash. He thought of her smile, but it was lost to time and memory. He tried to think back to when he’d first seen her; that too, was lost. All he could remember was the way she looked wistfully to the grey clouds on her final day. But she’d been ash for many years.
The emptiness of heart mirrored by the emptiness of his lap. His ginger cat had been one of his only companions as the late years had spiralled on, the great gyres of time widening and narrowing and now, he had a feeling that there was imminent collapse. The ginger cat would purr and stretch and perform sentry duty along the windows of the house, but he would always return to the grey bearded man’s lap.
It was not long after seven that morning, too early for lunch, too late to change his past. He had always wanted to go back to education, to upskill and to pursue a career. Years before it had been a regular event to look at the real estate advertisements in the newspaper, and then he had learned to use a computer to look for a bigger house in a better area. He had yearned for the kind of life that was synonymous with the Jones’, but as the grey bearded man sat in his armchair, he didn’t know if he was content or discontent. He knew the answer to this question would define his entire life. To get to this point, how could he truthfully answer: was he happy?
He could rationalise his answer; perhaps make an excuse or three. His thoughts were not as sharp as they had once been, and as he clasped his agitated hands over, he was shocked by his realisation that the answer didn’t matter. It didn’t matter to a single person in the world. All the grey bearded man could do was to sit in his armchair, with an inclination of what was to come, but without any idea of what would come next.
He looked up and out one of his small windows, he had hoped to see a ray of light. He had hoped for a theatrical moment as he imagined sounds of harps. He had hoped for a triumphant clash of symbols and trumpets. But his hope was only met with grey clouds and sparrow-less skies.