What An Old Man Sees

The old man stared blankly at the wall, all propped up in his hospital bed.  Hanging there was a painting of a calm New England autumn, a small gazebo on a small pond framed in orange and red leaves.  The old man liked staring at his painting.  It helped the days go by.  But today his view of his painting was marred by some woman who kept pacing back and forth in front of him.  A lawyer, he thought.  She was speaking to him, shouting to the point where he almost heard her despite his deafness.  He thought he could read the word 'testament,' but gave it little mind and he craned his withered neck to look around her and back to his painting.  Then the woman stopped directly in front of him, and tried to catch his eye.  She was a pretty one, he could see that.  He thought that if he was twenty years younger, he might have tried to give that face a little kiss.  But the pretty face twisted up with anger and she jabbed a finger at the old man again and again and he thought he didn't like that as much.  The old man decided that if he was twenty years younger he would given that face the back of his hand instead.  Her shouting trailed off and she suddenly broke down in tears, which was all right with the old man.  Hunched over and with her shoulders heaving like that, he could see most of his painting again.  Basically, all of it.