The old men
My new friend could speak no English, and I no tongues he knew.
So we sat on the stoop drinking coffee in the mornings, and wine at night.
We would tell long stories of our lives, the other smiling as we spoke. Hand gestures and laughs trying to get our points across a chasm of alcohol and language.
Just a couple old men. Tell stories to the unknowing because no one else would listen.
Old men's stories of lost women and jobs. Of wins and loses. We knew of the others sadness, of being old and alone.
One morning my friend didn't show. I sat there, watching the coffee I brought for him grow cold.
I went to check on him. The way I hoped someone cared enough to check on me one day.
I found what I expected. When you're past a certain age it happens to everyone you know.
A Potter's field, a hole with no name. Just a preacher and me. Holding a bottle of wine, for one last good time with my last good friend.