The way that the dying sunlight fell over the waves reminded him of when he was young, spurring on a fresh bout of reminiscence. He watched as a boat soared by out on the water, producing short waves of its own, minuscule in comparison to the vast, endless ocean. Thinking of the days when he had once piloted a boat of his own, he smiled, remembering how invincible he had felt as a young man and how the grand, never-ending ocean had meant nothing to him. It meant as much back then as it did on a map, just a patch of blue that could easily be covered by his broad, strong hand, depending on the size of the paper.
That hand which had once buried the entire Atlantic beneath its fingertips now seemed like that of a stranger. His hands at present were bony and frail, spotted with age and riddled with arthritis. How much he used to accomplish with his hands when he was younger, more able - fish, steer a boat, draw, hold a lover - and how little they could now do. Just barely able to press the letter keys of his secondhand typewriter.
YOU ARE READING
Short Little Things
Short StoryShort stories(? if you can even call them that) that I've scribbled down over time. Read them - or don't! I'll love you either way
