He sat at the kitchen table eating his dinner. Alone, as usual.
Funny thing was, he didn’t feel like he was by himself. He could still hear his beloved caretakers bickering like they were still alive, still in the room with him.
He could hear his grandmother shriek, demanding to know why the garbage hadn’t been taken out yet even though it was dark.
He could hear his grandfather howl, pleading with his wife of sixty years to stop using so much damn aluminum foil.
For some, the endless squabbling would ruin the meal.
For him it felt like home.
The Weekday One Hundred 