A Picture Window

John lit a cigarette and gazed out the living room picture window.

Now that his wife was dead he could smoke in the house. He could do anything he wanted to do. The ironic thing is he didn't feel like doing much of anything. The rebellion he expected to bloom faded to a dull acceptance.

The grass was coming around, although they..............he, didn't have much of a lawn. And he didn't care. Never gave a damn about a well-tended lawn or any other fucking thing that defined responsible home-ownership.

There was life out that window, though. Squirrels, chipmunks, stray cats and unrestrained dogs. The dogs shit on his lawn. John didn't care about that either. It was not like he would be having any family barbecues out there. Or friends over for casual visits. The closest he would get to the front lawn was a recliner on the screened-in porch, and he was fine with that. The recliner, a bottle, a cigarette. Small pleasures for a narrow, diminishing life. Justified.

Birds. He loved the birds. Not originally, but he grew to appreciate them. His wife kept the bird feeder alive and the birds visited in gratitude. He knew they were grateful because they sang for their supper.

Such pretty sounds.

And the colors. Not always exceptional. Birds, like people, could sometimes be boring. Then out of the blue, a bright red bird. Or bright yellow. He didn't know one bird from another, but he knew what made him feel alive. He knew that it made him feel good. 

When her heart stopped beating, his life stood still.  His shoulders became stooped, and would be for the rest of his life.

He wondered how much time he had left. 

It was ironic that he was the one left standing. Ridiculous. He deserved to die. He was darkness, she was light. But it went the other way around. The emotional pain was overwhelming. And the guilt.

Feeling guilty about being alive. There is something perverse in that.

A hummingbird caught his eye. Hovering at the feeder, the feeder that she also maintained. Such delicate, magical birds. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Not a flood, but enough to trigger the safety valve of his emotions.

His heart wouldn't burst today.

He lit another cigarette.