November 2, 2013
In the morning that's what he does, he checks his mailbox. Then he goes out again in the afternoon to buy soda. On some days it's Coke, on some days it's Royal, on some days it's Mountain Dew. But on most days it's Coke. It's become a comfortable sight, him holding that red can, walking ever so slowly from the store to his door. I don't know how many hours I have in a day that I can afford to watch him like this. But I don't count and I don't care to count. I want to understand his sadness.