There’s nothing. Not a thing comes to mind. A vast space. Blank canvas. Stale white toast on a plate.

At one time, he had ideas. Sleepless nights in his study, drawing pictures of  furniture. Tables, chairs, cedar chests, bookcases, a day bed for his wife to lay on and eat grapes, drawn up and perfectly designed. A craft well attended, thought out, each picture carefully drafted. Lead pencils in a coffee can.

He sits on his porch now during the night watching rain fall, cars driving by, neon signs blinking, mosquitoes dancing; an ashtray by his side. Fly traps hung from the ceiling. The swing goes back and forth. His feet barely touch the concrete floor. He bends just a bit.

Some say the mind goes first. Forgetting our past. Others say it’s the body. A temple that now sags. His eyes twitched. Yawned. His once tanned skin is gray. Inside his head, a blank slate.

Streetlights no longer shine. The night is done. Head tilted back, eyes closed. Birds sing the old man to sleep. I should have been there for him.