Over the week I listened to an old man talk about how things were like when he was younger. We sat and gave him our undivided attention, sitting on kitchen chairs and taking in everything in huge gulps: his tattered white shirt, tufts of balding white hair, wrinkled brown skin, and despite all the evident signs of old age, we were entranced by the still-youthful eyes that were fixed on a faraway place that none of us could follow. Memory.
An illegitimate child, a working student, an undergraduate, he told us about how hard work could get you far, and how you should find your passion, that drive, and how a sheltered life can keep you from the things waiting for you outside while looking at me straight in the eye. A salesman, a husband, a father, but never a family man.
"I never did this with my family, never got the chance to talk to them like this." He said, gesturing to the four of us.
He turned eighty-one on the fifteenth of September and currently lives in a house too big for himself. He's ready to go, he told us, but just has one major regret: he worked too hard in attempt to give his family the life that he wanted them to have and succeeded, but lost them one by one as their hearts grew distant in the process. He only sees his children, now middle-aged adults, once or twice a year. Three of them live in the States. One lives nearby. His wife left him after growing tired.
"You can never take back lost time." He told us again and again.
Seventeen and studying Psychology. I like books, coffee, lyricism, magic hour, (in)signifcant moments, free-verse poetry, mental disorders, female anatomy, pretty smiles, late night conversations, and the time it takes for two people to transcend the boundary between strangers and friends.
I keep sadness at bay by constantly falling in love with the little things in life. My name is Anna and this is where I try to write.
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