The Fading of the Light
By HarryB
Published: December 5, 2013

The Fading of the Light<br />
<br />
Harry Buschman<br />
<br />
<br />
He didn't walk with a firm footstep any more, instead he lurched a bit from side to side in a stiff legged strut like a man on stilts, bumping into things along the way. He looked about him curiously, as though he wondered why he was where he was.<br />
<br />
He didn't see as well as he used to. Things in the center of his vision were curiously out-of-focus, and in the night, bright pin-points of light sparkled like miniature explosions in his eyes. He looked in vain for things he misplaced only to have them turn up in unfamiliar places. He'd wonder how they got there - he didn't put them there.<br />
<br />
He knew he was getting old, short-tempered and cranky. His friends were fewer, and those he bumped into in the old neighborhood seemed worse off than he. Some times he would help them cross the street only to find they had reached the other side in better shape than he did. He raged against the fading of the light. He wouldn't accept it. Why should he? There were thoughts bottled up inside him ideas unspoken anxious to be let out. Furious that no one paused to listen to him, he'd find a quiet place to sit and try to understand what had happened to him and wonder what would happen to the great ideas that still flooded his brain.<br />
<br />
He was growing very old. He could hold his hands up to the light and see through them... his mortality was a constant companion. But, there were times a burning spark of pure inspiration seared his breast... it smoldered there... sputtered like a dying candle. He couldn't watch it gutter out and die. He wanted the world to see what an old man could do.<br />
<br />
and they found him that morning, his hand in a fist raised to the sky.