The Author

I watch him when I’m out in my yard. He sits in a chair that rocks occasionally and stares out the window, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes he listens to beautiful music that floats out of the yellow interior. As I catch strains of it, soft and wind-borne, the music makes me feel good.

Every now and then people come to visit him. I don’t get the impression they are family. Most of them are quite a bit younger than him. College students and professors, I suppose. Sometimes they stay overnight. I read their license plates and realize some of them have traveled all the way across the country.

Curious, I try to read one of his books. I can’t figure out why people like him. I throw the book across the room and it lies there in the corner, a broken heap. I go back outside to stare over at his house, three cars in the driveway. I reassure myself by thinking these people must have come all these great distances to listen to his beautiful music.