Chapter Twenty-three: Who’s watching the old man?

The elk was to meet up with the old man for the first time, again. It was cold out, but he needed a workout. He puts on the jogging shoes. Then put the cap upon his head. He pulls it up and over you, no?

"No, over the head." Look, he pulls over the hoodie too. He then bounces off into the crisp morning air. Meanwhile, look. Look at this. Over here.

The old man is sitting in a chair. It's almost freezing there in the old rocking chair. The disdain showed for the frigid fall air. He is still listening and hearing things, and thinking and talking, to himself even. Talking about nothing it would seem. Nothing but…

The Elk is approaching the peripheries of the old man's housing. He looked up and seen him. His strides are shortening and slowing, down to just a jog and almost a walk now. Because…

…nothing.

The old man was to have seen him running, as he was to be seen coming. His breath was heavy as he was approaching. The head, or more like, the hoodie covering the head was bobbing. …running some more now as he goes, no, more like, come. Coming on up, and getting closer to him.

His head is still bobbing to and fro as it grows taller and clearer over the steep uphill climb. …Just about walking now.

Elk is panting hard and breathing rather heavily as he watched the hilltop draw near and hence. Relief for the downside and a much easier workload. And going with the wind. He's running much more than before now. No, He's not jogging anymore, wow.

But then he was to have seen him there, the old man. Sitting in the rocking chair and doing more of the nothings which he was known to be doing, always. Only by those who knew him though. Not so much the Elk. He didn't know him that much, no.

Other than to look up and see him sitting there, as he is soon to be passing by the old man's chair. …Running.

And he, the old man, would have been there thinking to himself and talking to himself, like always. The old man is there again today, writing. He's always writing things down in a book. In a journal or something, anything that can be eternal. Other than for that…

Elk now cuts the speed of the running a bit. Slowly, as he gets closer to him, where the old man sits there. Then he cuts it down to a walk, what? Look at that. Now he is standing, no, not quite but, bending forward, hunched with both hands on the knee upfront and panting. Breathing as hard as it was to hit him. Straightening up again. Just standing there now with both hands akimbo and looking, looking at the old man there, doing nothing. Other than those things that he is always known to be doing. Like, much more, nothing.

…Walking off now, and then stopping, again, and staring, at him, at the old man.

And he, the old man! Look, he just picked it up. The coffee cup. Now he is sipping on the cup, the old man is sipping on the coffee cup, and staring over the brim, at the lookouter, looking at him.

…Walking again, Elk is walking away slowly, and looking back at him, yes, at the old man.

He, the old man is taking a break from drinking, from savoring the coffee, and from thinking, of me. From talking to himself, and from writing too. He is now just staring back at him. It's his coffee break. He can do whatever he wants and for as long as he wants to date. He is slowly rolling the cup now in the palm of his hands. Roll on slowly, mister man. Now he is talking to himself, again, and rolling, the cup, still.

Elk runs off and speeds it up a little. He is now slowing down to do something, and stopping, again. He is turning around, he just turned himself around, to look back at the old man. He who is still there talking, the old man is talking to himself. But the Elk, look, he just looked up… what is he…?

"Will you shut the cup up," he swore at the old man who did not answer back, but looked up at him yet more.

He did not respond, the old man, he just reached up with a confident right hand, grabbed and stroked a handful of white beards. And think and think, and think some more but.

Out in the distance, look at that, there he goes, the Elk is going, up the road, not so slowly anymore. …going.

The old man is writing, writing, writing again. …Going.

And thinking thought's in colorful languages. …Going.

Of some things that he would like to say to him. …Going.

And seeing faces in beautiful shades. …Going still. And plain green pastures out on the glades. …Going.

He now puts away the pen and the writing pads. …Going.

Or was it a journal that he had? Anyway, he's still. Going.

The old man gets up, turns around, and walks towards the front door. …Growing smaller as he is going.

The old man steps inside, turns, and is now about to close the door before him, but not before looking up once more at him. …Going, what little is left of him, going.

The old man tugged his nose and pouted at him. …Gone. The old man finishes upon closing the door.

It is way past his bedtime now, he is beat, he is spent, all used up one might say, the old man is. All together. Done.

The End

By E Lloyd Kelly.

To be continued

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