The Old Man at the Window

The old man made his way carefully down the street, cane in one hand. He paused now and again, and looked at the shops along the street, but only stopped for long twice.

The first time was outside a formal dress shop, and he looked at the beautiful dress in the window for quite some time, his expression sad.

When he finally got moving again there were tears in his eyes.

The second time was outside a book shop. In the window was set up with the top five sellers displayed, and in the number one spot was a name he recognized.

“Drea DiMaggio. Well, well, well. Good for her.”

He fingered the wallet in his pocket for a while, and then pulled it out.

It was a faded pink color, and inside was a few bills which he counted twice, and then sighed and put the wallet back in his pocket.

He turned, and slowly walked away from the window, wincing as his cane helped him move.

Some time later, he arrived at a small apartment that was little more than a bed with a stove feet away. There was a small dresser beside the bed, and as he sat on the bed he reached over and pulled open the top drawer. Inside was a faded binder, and he pulled this out, and opened it up.

On the inside cover was a couple of photos and he carefully pulled these out and looked closely at them. One was of a young woman, smiling broadly with laughter in her eyes.

He caressed this picture for a moment, and whispered, “Samantha. You turned out okay. I guess that's something to be proud of.”

Then he looked at the other photo. It was of a person in a skirt and blouse, looking relaxed and at peace, but he winced at the sight of five-o’clock shadow on the cheeks.

He flipped the photo over, and on the other side was a simple declaration.

“Dorothy. 2012”

“Ah... Those were the days.”

The old man sighed, and put both pictures back in the binder. The rest of the binder was full of writing, some typed, some written in pen. He fingered a few samples for a while, and then put them back in, and put the binder back in the drawer and closed it.

“Maybe I should find out who published ‘Drea’s book. Maybe if I told them we used to be sisters they’d consider publishing something of mine.. Not likely, but you never know.”

He sighed, took off his clothes, put on a faded nightie, turned out the light on top of the dresser, and crawled into the bed.

“Dorothy Colleen. Ah, Those were the days ....” He repeated, and then fell asleep.