He sat in darkness drinking wine. Placing the glass to his lips, he took large gulps. Swigged it down like it was the last bottle he’d ever have. It was a sweet Reisling. Tasted like syrup, sugar from the cane. He always had a bottle on hand. One to replace the next one.
The long stemmed glass he drank from had their initials on it. She picked them out. Had em hand engraved. Etched in by a master craftsman. Or, some kid at the mall.
The old man would sit and listen to jazz for hours while drinking bottle after bottle. A big toe was cut off; diabetes will do that. He knew it was a matter of time before blindness would set in. Never to be able to see again. He’d miss looking at pictures.
Every night he took out albums of old photographs and looked through them. The retired insurance salesman would cry over pictures of his wife, kids, grand kids, the family dog. Pictures of Paris, Berlin, New York, kissing in San Fransisco, they all made him shiver. These people were gone now. These places had changed. There was no going back. All of it was different now; wife passed away, kids living their own lives, the old house was falling apart.
Memories, that’s all he had. Too sit and drink while remembering the old days; a tear always came to his eye.
He finished the bottle of Reisling. Took his medications and never woke up. He dreamed forever.