The rocking chair squeaked like an upset kitten as the old man leaned back and forth, his faded blue jean overalls patched up in the usual places. Outside the torrent showed no signs of letting up and to all appearances the road would be renamed Mill River by midnight. He muttered as the relentless drops kept up a steady beat as if the roof dreamed of being a timpani in another life.
I leant closer to hear.
"I lost it. I lost it. I lost it."
"What? What did you lose?"
He kept muttering, the repetition as metronomic as the raindrops. Like an occasional cymbal crash, almost as an afterthought I repeated my question when the muttering fluctuated in any way. The day began to slip into night without much more than dim turning dimmer and I considered finally giving up and passing on, but thought to try one last time. Perhaps the flickering streetlights, sputtering in the deluge, sparked his mind.
He stopped. His bleary eyes focused on me for the first time. His voice not more than a hoarse whisper, partly from age and partly from the incessant words, came so low that I leaned in to hear.
"I lost the way."
"The way to where?"
"Home."
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