Seventy Eight
Seventy Eight He was about mother’s age and stature when she died four years ago; stout and short but graceful, with the buoyancy of fresh foxglove bursting forth in summer. He’d hang a hammock and go for a walk on the beach. Wading his hips as his feet pressed the wet sand; salt seasoned the expression of joy on his face. Two bongo players about his age and black as his shirt, struck a harmony of rhythms he could not ignore. The sun reflected on his face emanated the happiness of an old freedom-song recaptured. For a brief moment, he eluded winter, but soon it would be time to return to the retirement house and dream about a good dance partner.