Old Man of the Sea

&;#65279;The old man stands in the doorway of time; withered and
worn, knowledge written on his
tattered form, wearing old shoes, their uppers dull their shine long
gone. Knotted shrunk hands bent into mysterious forms, brown at it
tips, as he slowly rolls the paper around his tobacco. The smell of
pee, stale cabbage and ash catch the wind as his grey straggled hair
displaces yet another scattering of dandruff from his dirty grey
jacket. His purple lips huge in the midst of the grey whiskers and long
trailing beard. Small bright blue eyes shine and twinkle as memories
move through his mind. A drip of clear fluid ready to drop from his
hooked nose, all sense of beauty lost but held in his mind.

A brown paper bag just visible in one of his deep pockets, the neck of
the bottle slightly
protruding and a huge clean hankie tucked in his upper breast pocket.
Those who walk by
hardly see the tears as they fall, as they ignore the old tramp.
Loneliness may have it's way of creeping up on everyone but in his
confused state he sees us undressed in our own fears, our own
vulnerability and what he sees is not what he can recall as a child.
His world may be slow but his mind had been sharp as he reminisce's
that time, that seem to him to be not so long ago when he was known by
his last name by some, and his first by many. Least we forget.

The familiar old shop had closed down sometime ago, its doorway and
windows now
boarded up, the paint work peeling and dirty but he could remember it
when it was open and he would enter in and buy his 'bacco and papers,
and maybe have his hair trimmed by the barber who had a place at the
back. On the shop doorstep cans and one or two discarded syringes added
to the clutter, he thought of his half drunk bottle of Whiskey, a
present for his birthday and how he hadn't had any alcohol for years
and began in his confused state to wonder what was happening.

He sighed deeply. Looking back at the street where young mothers no
longer pushed their
prams, no child played at the corner nor was time spent passing the day
between neighbours; even the number eleven bus didn't pass this way
anymore. Time had moved and things had changed, slowly he moved his
standing place so as to see the new office block. He wondered how long
it would be before he was asked to move on. On going to look at his
watch, he only then remembered how it had being taken from him by two
young men with nothing better to do, or so he thought. But he could
smell that peculiar smell that they had about them, one that he wasn't
sure of. He felt his pocket and realised that they'd taken his money
too, but had left the half drank bottle in it's brown paper bag. That
was after they'd punched him in the tummy and made him sick.

He had wandered around for some time, no one had helped and yet he knew
that others had seen what had happened. He recalled been moved on by
some young bobby but as he stood there his head began to ache so he sat
down on the dirty floor, he was past caring. Immediately he was
forgotten and scorned by those who passed by, a sorrowful figure in a
unforgiving hurried world .

Sitting there, alone he recalled the previous day and how it had all
started out so well, the
bottle of whiskey had been a present from old Joe the bo'sun for his
birthday. Although he
had not lived long at the Seaman's home where they had kept him clean
and warm, he had longed to go home to the old street that had long
since gone. Tears welled up at the back of his eyes, as the memories he
recalled from those pre-war days of childhood and how hard it had all
been.

Slowly his stooped body relinquished life and he died there on that
doorstep, such a short
distance away from where he had being brought up. The following day the
newspaper's told his story, of how this 101 year old war time hero with
medals by the score, had eventually died in a doorway after being
kicked and robbed by a possible drug induced rage of some unknown
youth, all caught on the CTTV camera as people walked by. All he had
wanted was to return home.

He had not being alone in this big new world for which he had given so
much of his life. He had left his son who lived in some far off country
and his daughter who worked hard in
some office in the busy world. The new generation. Only his grandchild
had visited him on his birthday, only his grandson had remembered the
old man with his wizened face and bent hands. Only his grandson had
laid that single bunch of flowers, there on that dismal doorstep. How
easy it is for us to forget.