Stoic

He fancied himself as “stoic.” Alone in the darkness, silently sucking a briar pipe, he watches snow swirl under the street lights. Nothing can touch him now, and if it does, one would never be the wiser.

This resolve had only come about in the last year or so. Prior to that, he would complain about life’s hardships to anyone who would listen. The injustice of maturity and all the aches and pains that accompany it.

Years of working for the man who stopped caring once production slowed had left him bent and twisted. Now, he shuffles his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, hoping he makes it in time. Assuming he does, like today, the ritual of the pipe follows.

As always, during quiet times like this, his eyes fall upon the image of the only woman he had ever loved. She had been there through it all. Never wavered in her conviction, no matter how bad things got. This year will mark six years since she was ripped away by that horrible disease. Time meant nothing though as his rage continued to glow like the tobacco in the bowl.

His son, now grown with a family of his own, stopped communicating with him after their last fight, nearly two years ago. Sometimes, the old man considers apologizing,  the kids are growing up so fast but then the familiar indignation sets in and the calls are never placed.

His friends are all gone, either dead or wishing they were as they rotted away in a home. This was the reason for their fight. It was suggested that maybe it would be better for all if he were to move to an assisted living facility. Every time he thought back to that conversation he became angry again. They didn’t care about him, they just wanted the house and the property that went with it.

The house and what few belongings he had in it were all that was left. A musty reminder of a life that could have been wonderful yet never achieved. A lifetime of excuses and accusations, when smiles were few and the stress neverending.

He used to drink. Justifiably so, in his solitary opinion and this was the catalyst for many disappointments. Drinking allowed him to complain with impunity, so he did, and he became quite proficient at both. Ironically, it took the passing of his sweetheart to make him quit.

His new-found sobriety did nothing to change his pessimism, however. He was still bitter and his constant complaining was an irritant to all within earshot. His sponsor informed him he was a “dry drunk.” His response…” Fuck off!” and they never saw each other again. Looking back, the guy was probably the most honest friend he ever had.

Within the last year, however, a distinct change had enveloped him. A resolve to quietly endure… to accept his fate without the all-too-familiar grumblings. Never again would he allow the world to see his pain and frustration. No one will hear his fear. He will remain stoic until the bitter end. Because in the end...nobody really cares.

The first rays of the morning sun startle the lingering chrystals in the sky. His pipe, extinguished for the last time, falls to the floor.