22 September 2050 He never felt like Jorge H. Bernardo when he returned. He felt like Sinbad. Arrived back at last, at the end of his travels, returned before the King, trembling in wait as his fate hung in the balance, having journeyed, wandered, gone wayward, and gone lost far and wide before finding his place in the world again. His beloved corner of Sekovia Drive: a lone Red Maple painting a chill gray on the sunlit pavement that he could claim as his own. He would stoop, panting, one hand extended to reach the broken bricks of the curb before his knee gave away, and support himself as he sat down, home again. Throwing his pillowcase aside, sliding backwards until his back nearly touched the southern boundary wall of the Duvall Shelter for the Homeless, he paused to hurriedly take out his neatly folded throw from the case and push it with his shaky hand between his back and the wall. Or a large burn stamped on his back would be the next big thing. He was fifty-two. Kneeing
Last Updated : 2024-10-29 Read more