Reflecting on Time

The light slanted in through the window and woke the young man drowsing near the window. He opened his eyes and then jerked as if he'd remembered something awful.

Dante hated this wheelchair.

He hated that at 17 his life was over. He hated watching those mindless idiots out there in the street, but nevertheless he sat here at the window and watched them every day, all day, regardless. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

He had almost gotten to the point of accepting things in the past month or so. Not that he was letting on to his fussing Aunt Maria that he was. It suited him to let her believe he still lived in a cauldron of hatred and rage at that ignorant drunk driver. His fury was in no way alleviated by the fact that the jerk had died in the accident.

As the case wound its way slowly through the court system, Dante showed up for every hearing in order to laser his outrage and disgust at the distraught family trying to mitigate the financial damage.

Fuck 'em. He told his attorney that they could always sell one of the family homes on the coast.

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He couldn’t quite remember when that dignified old fellow in the fedora caught his attention. But somehow he started realizing the guy showed up every afternoon around 4. Sometimes he’d stop and stare intently into puddles in the street. He looked like a Mafia don or something in his formal suit and hat. Once he got into a shouting match with a delivery guy who splashed through the puddle.

Feisty old so and so. Dante loved that.

Then, what was it?, like three weeks ago or something the old guy began bringing a small vase of flowers out to leave on the corner. Each morning the street sweepers would toss it into the trash and in the afternoon the old guy would be back with another one.

Then he stopped coming. Like for a week or more.

But this morning, there were the flowers again. Dante strained to see up and down the street. He stationed himself at the window, determined to see the guy. For the first time ever he was glad for that vile catheter.

He found himself entranced by the ballet of the sidewalk. It was a narrow, busy street and for the first time, Dante didn’t hate all those people who weren’t even aware of how lucky they were to have legs and feet that worked. He just watched. 4 o’clock came and went but no sign of his old man.

Aunt Maria obediently brought his lunch and then his dinner into the bedroom. Maria still ached at the death of her sister but understood that her orphaned nephew had to grieve in his own way. So she draped an afghan around his shoulders and went to bed.

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There he is in the window. Good. I wondered if my little trip to Miami would discourage him. But, nope.

There he is waiting to catch me with the flowers this afternoon.

Kid’s got a rough time ahead of him but he’s strong. Too bad he never knew his real Mom, but that daughter of mine, what a handful. If he's anything like her, I can't help but pity that aunt of his.

I wonder if anyone told him that he was adopted.

I’ll be taking another vase of flowers out to her grave tomorrow morning but I’ll keep bringing some here in the afternoon. No need to make a production out of it. Just leave ’em and keep moving.

He’ll be ok.

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