THE STORM

Back in the day, he’d never have thought about walking to the shops, walking was boring, no, he would have run. He could remember the wind whipping through his hair, the sound of the air against his ears as he picked up speed, the sheer joy of running.

Now, he walked, he walked not because he wanted to, but more because he had to. Since Sarah had passed the world had lost its sparkle, lost its brightness somehow, each day just seemed to be like the last, one continuous treadmill taking him closer and closer to his own, eventual death and his eventual meeting with his wife.

He looked up at the clouds that formed above him, he knew now that he should have stayed at home, that he should have resigned himself to an evening without tobacco, but, with so little left in his life, his routine became everything, and if he didn’t go, then he might as well just give up altogether, and Sarah wouldn’t want that.

Forty years ago this would have been a five minute walk, and he felt such a fool for kidding himself that he could still do it. Each step was a struggle for him now, not only for his legs, but his chest also, and he wheezed as he tried to speed up. The leaves started to dance on the floor before him, caught by the energy of the coming storm, and they twisted and jumped before him in mockery for his age.

Even the birds had stopped singing in fear of the approaching storm, though it took him a moment to realise as his hearing aid wasn’t working very well today, the poor woman in the shop had to repeat the cost of his items three times, and in the end, he’d just held his shaking hand out and she’d taken the right amount, thankfully, no one had seen the tear of defeat running down his cheek as he left.

The first drops of rain hit his face and re realised he’s made a huge mistake in coming out, but it was his routine, it was all he had left. The thunder rolled as he started his slow walk home, his stick holding his steady against the winds, it was his routine, and he’d had nothing if he didn’t try.