[Painting by Stanisław Masłowski, Moonrise]
He didn’t know what he was thinking. It didn’t matter now. Jane was gone from his life and he had lost his home, in her. He couldn’t quite find the quietness and warmth he had with her in any of the bars. At age 65, nobody was going to offer this old bastard a job. He sat next to the river, just across his house. His eye brows frowned and his unruly beard gave away in the winter wind as he stared quietly at the gushing river. He touched the flowing stream of life and closed his tired eyes. The water rippled through his fingers, playing silent notes of tranquility. He felt like he was moving his fingers through Jane’s hair, ever-moving, desperate to go somewhere. The white stream stared back at him through the bubbles. He couldn’t answer any of the questions the river asked, a smile was all he could offer. He walked to the shallow part of the river and he lied there. His head was half-drowned and he could hear the chatter of the water. After sixteen months, his mind, for once, became silent. The water caressed his rough hair and beard,and he felt like he was floating . It played on his chest , the feeling that Jane was sitting right beside him, drawing circles on his chest with her timid fingers. Tingling. He stared at the sky and the clouds laughed back at the old man. His fingers could touch her hands and eyes now. A tear-drop from his right eye came rushing to the river. His contribution. When the teenagers came that way trekking, they couldn’t discern why there was a dead old man covered in snow, in the river,with a grin on his face.