A Short Story by Tony Jarrah
I sit out here most evenings now. Rocker creaks, same as my old bones.
Fields in front of me used to be tobacco, once, then corn, then nothin’ much.
Been nothin’ much for a long time. I don’t mind. Gives me somethin’ to look at while I reminisce.
Folks in town say I talk to myself. Reckon I do. But the ones I’m talkin’ to ain’t here, so I s’pose that’s the same thing. What else can a lonely old man do?
