The unremarkable Mr. John

The bells from the church kept hitting the silence of the night in an almost mathematical manner. They were accompanied, like a distorted note in a lousy musical, by dogs barking and howling at something that one would think is inevitable, scary  or out of this world. Houses were sitting quietly in rows, squares, small columns, arranged by a steady hand to met the conditions of a neighborhood in the outskirts of a big city. Or just a suburbia. I couldn't tell for sure. The wind is whipping the streets with cold shards of ice and Mr. John was making his way home from the Supermarket. He carries two bags, maybe too heavy for his physique. All sorts in there. He walks carefully not to slip on the icy pavement. His eyes are half closed, trying to avoid the blizzard. Lights from the electrical poles are flickering, giving Mr. John some trouble orientating. As he pushes forward, he remembered the  one time he slipped on ice, giving his two daughters and wife a laugh. 

Mr. John is alone now. Daughters grew, got married, flew away from home with their spouses, kids, credit cards, cars, jobs. His wife left a long time ago. Never seen her since. He still wondering why she left while he chews up some tobacco, in the long summer afternoon days, while resting on his porch. Loneliness became, in a twisted way, a source of power for him, thinking often about him waiting for a train in a god forsaken train station, up on  a  grip sack, alone. He imagine that loneliness must be a train. Riding it alone,  with people heading nowhere and everywhere,  carrying bags, pulling the car trucks full of emotions, resent, deceptions, nostalgia. 

Home is near. He can see it through the roaring blizzard. His cheeks are red, cold burning. His big eyebrows are covered with tiny specks of ice. His breath is labored, but steady. 

- Aren't you bored of breathing for so many years?

He quickly turns around, almost dropping his bags, only to see his footsteps in the snow and the dim lit street bashed by the snowy wind.

- Or tired. Yes, tired. Not bored.

It was clear as a May afternoon. That voice. It was a little  girl on the other side of the street. She was barely dressed, but she didn't seem affected by that. Mr. John was just looking at her, unable to act or to show a sign of intent to reply. Just like thirty five years ago, when his first  daughter was born. Looking at her making  her way into the world. Breathing, living, growing. And the rays of sun piercing the shades in her room, caressing her face. And the old walnut in his grandfather orchard, where Mr. John, as a kid, would climb and rest on his big old branches. And that beautiful photograph of him with his girl, on the beach. It was long time ago.

- Come, come for a tea. You seem cold and exhausted. 

The traffic light is red. The wind is trashing the freshly covered  by snow street. The  dogs are barking and howling at something that one would think is inevitable, scary  or out of this world. Bags are where Mr. John left them. Bells are getting heavier, while houses are sitting quietly and unaware.