Member-only story
Reflecting on Time
Too Much to Lose, Too Young to Lose It
Dante hated this wheelchair. Hated that at 17 his life was over. Hated watching those mindless idiots out there in the street, but he sat here at the window and watched them every day, all day, anyway. He had almost gotten to the point of accepting things in the past month or so. For the first year after the accident, however, Dante lived in a cauldron of hatred and rage at that ignorant drunk driver.
He couldn’t quite remember when that dignified old guy in the fedora caught his attention. But somehow he started realizing the guy showed up every afternoon around 4. Sometimes he’d stop and stare intently into puddles in the street. He looked like a Mafia don or something in his formal suit and hat. Once he got into a shouting match with a delivery guy who splashed through the puddle. Feisty old so and so. Dante loved that.
Then, what was it?, like three weeks ago or something the old guy began bringing a small vase of flowers out to leave on the corner. Each morning the street sweepers would toss it into the trash and in the afternoon the old guy would be back with another one.
Then he stopped coming. Like for a week or more.
But this morning, there were the flowers again. Dante strained to see up and down the street. He stationed himself at the…
