He sat there crying. Great heaving sobs wrenched from him in such an outpouring of grief. His shoulders hunched and hands held to his eyes as if to stem the flood.
He’d had such dreams. Such plans. But they had left when the door slammed.
The room echoed with the sighs of regret. Words spoken and never to be placed back in their cage. Outpourings of anger and recrimination.
The worse over, he raised up slowly, chair toppling behind him to be picked up later in a quieter time when he returned. For now he needed to be away from this dismal room with its memories of hope.
Slamming the door behind him.
I could still imagine I heard his footsteps walking up the road, as I looked at the chair in the corner, upright now with the books carefully placed back on it as before.
I could sense the history and left, sad now, and trying to overcome the sense of loss I’d felt at the story of Vincent.
This short piece was written for a Writing Skills Task at http://ourartsmagazine.com/literature/writing-skills-task-33/2017