e Little River Review - Gorham High School!

Alex Swiatek
�e Young and the Old
The Young and the Old
Brilliant rays of piercing sunlight broke through the wisps of mystifying clouds in the
morning. A train churned to a halt as travelers and passengers began to �ow out. Somewhere, a
bird answered the train’s whistle with a song of its own. It was his �rst time here. �e young man
could feel the sprouting city calling; it was alive, a living and breathing behemoth of opportunity.
�e day itself coated the town in a veil of amiability and mist. �e thin mist only made the daylight
all the more radiant. A new start for this man, a new home, a new life. His o�ce was on the 12th
�oor of the burgundy building in the heart of the meager, yet eager city. It was a heart of ambition
and achievement, a heart young and lively.
�e old man groaned as his piercing alarm sounded. �e morning wasn’t as vivacious as he
had remembered. Time doesn’t stop for anyone, he supposed. �e lifetime he had spent in the
once small town was beginning to overstay its welcome. Even the noble spruce tree was beginning
to wither. He looked with his failing eyes at the spruce, his childhood friend. �e �rst time he
talked to his wife was when he was 7, under that spruce tree. He thought of her as the ancient
Chevy coughed and moaned to life. Perhaps it was the only thing with any life le�. Where did it all
go? Where were the times spent together? �e times growing and not knowing where next week’s
paycheck would come from? �e times when all he had le� was himself and his dear wife, his best
friend? All of those moments were scarcely memories anymore; it was all that was le�.
�e young man settled into his new o�ce. �e chair was a �ne, black leather, but felt
like so�, cushioned silk. It felt right. �e window panes painted a picture of the city. �e man
looked down and sighed. It was a sigh of relief, a sigh of security and a sigh of assurance. �ings
would �nally work out. He �nally had the better hand, the aces he had been working and waiting
for. It was time to start living. His phone rang to the song of some ‘90s alternative rock band.
�e woman’s voice was cheerful, warm and bubbly, as usual. �e woman he loved, the woman
he would marry. He shared the sites and experiences of his new home, the home she would be
arriving to in the following week. �ings would �nally be OK. It was time to start living.
A rusted Chevy dashed through the town, as if in one last e�ort to win a phantasmagorical
race. An old Creedence song sang out as the old man’s worn hands gripped the wheel. Time
doesn’t wait for anyone, he was afraid. �is was not the town he grew up in, not the town he
remembered, not his home. It had died. �e truck barely kept up with life’s �nal hurrah as the old
man drove away, away from the world and the nightmare of today. Vainly, he drove, as if expecting
to �nd his old home and friends, just around the corner. Just a little more, and he would reach it,
he could feel it, the life of long ago, all of the happy memories resurrected, just as he recalled. �e
car slowed, but the old man ran and ran, as far as his legs would carry him, he ran. �rough blurred
eyes he could see it. He stopped. He fell. He made it.
~ 36 ~