Christmas lights in September. A wreath is still on the front door. Leaves have yet to change.

It is morning. The old man sits on steps made of concrete; cold, wet from last night’s rain. A cup of coffee beside him, cigarette dangles from his lips. School children line up at the bus stop.

Inside the trailer, mom is making breakfast; fried eggs, fried bacon, fried potatoes, everything fried with buttered white toast. She hums along to a Dottie West song. Windows are open. He can hear her. The smell of bacon drippings linger.

He takes one last drag off his Marlboro and stomps it out in the dirt. Throws the butt in a coffee can. The old man opens the door and sees breakfast laid out on the table for him. He does not smile at her or say thank you. He simply sits and begins to eat.

Gotta go to the grocery today, she says. Want anything special? he continues shoveling the food in front of him into his small mouth. We need more bacon, she tells him. More eggs. Maybe a chicken. Sound good? he does not respond.

Being finished, she grabs his yellow stained plate. Takes it to the sink and rinses it off. Again, he does not say thank you. The old man goes back outside and sits with a half filled cup and lights his cigarette. He stares into space, mumbles to himself, and then falls over against the rail.

She walks down the steps past him. Pats the old man on the shoulder. There is no response.