His faded black sweater resembles his faded black soul, worn, lonely. His arms stretch against his cold chest rising and falling with every single tired exhale. Creases form on his forehead, signs of longing and stress. Some wrinkles were of happiness, of times when he actually lived, and loved. His snow white hair falls in icy tendrils along his ears, proof of old age, and hard times. His over worked hands ache from arthritis and decades of manual labor as he turns the knobs of the machine. No matter how broken, he always fixes his white washing machines. Doing so gives him some purpose, taking up his time and room in his mind to block out his haunting memories. A cold strangled smile breaks along his face as he locks up his defaced grafftitti covered basement. He walks up the creaky stairs supporting his heavy loneliness on the wooden rail, blisters sticking in his callused fingers. His room is empty except for a bed, a reading lamp, and a large chair by the window. The winter’s cold air radiates off the foggy window, he has goose bumps, but feels numb. He sits in his lonely chair, in his faded sweater, and fights every aching urge to remember her, her soft brown hair that smelled of Sunday mornings, her contagious smile, her longing gaze, his first and only love, his best friend his wife. He sits in his isolated chair, wearing his worn black sweater, as he himself fades. He tries not to remember, but his memories never fade.