Davin scratches at his beard as he enters the patio and moves into the house, his eyes move over all the family memento’s. Pictures of special moments filled with happy people, living the life to its fullest, and life’s paraphernalia laid on everything, hanging from the walls, dusty and useless. Turning into the kitchen he sets three lemons picked from the garden onto the marble cutting slab that sits upon the tiled counter. The floor comments with every creek as he moves around the counter and pulls a knife from the drawer, “Life is a grand place Davin,” the floor says, “ahh, there’s the cork mark on the ceiling from the champagne that was popped on your birth.” Davin ignores the creeks, slices the lemons, gets a tall glass and hand squeezes as much as he can get from them. After filling the glass half full of water he leans back onto the counter with a sigh. The kitchen is dark, very little light gets through the patio and through the small kitchen window that once used to look into the yard.

A subtle figure from the corner of his eye gets his attention, he looks over casually and then moves over to the archway, standing between the kitchen and the living room. Two old lazy boy chairs stare back at him, each one set cozy next to the fireplace. A smirk shoots from his belly as he listens to his grandparents talk to each other from those now empty and distant chairs. Grandfather mostly deaf, grandmother with Alzheimer’s, both carrying on to a different conversation and topic. Davin sips from the glass again, turns and makes his way back out to the garden. That’s where he put a lot of his energy, planting and landscaping that special place where he would one day sit and wait to die.


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