Henry Townshend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
21st_sacrament) wrote2011-10-02 02:08 am
21st_sacrament) wrote2011-10-02 02:08 am
Entry tags:
perspective piece idk
They talk about simple things.
Every other Thursday, when he's just gotten back from the subway station his phone will ring and he picks it up before it can go to his answering machine.
His mother brings her work home and he can hear the scratch of her pencil and pen sometimes, in between the gaps of her speech. Her end is always silent when he talks, no matter how short the comment or little question he can think to ask.
They talk about work, her church group, him quitting smoking once and for all - it's not that bad at all, mom.
She jokes sometimes, about a house, about children, Henry never knows what to say. No matter how close they are or how much she loves him, he's never been able to tell her.
It really isn't such a terrible thing to grow old and die alone for him.
Every other Thursday, when he's just gotten back from the subway station his phone will ring and he picks it up before it can go to his answering machine.
His mother brings her work home and he can hear the scratch of her pencil and pen sometimes, in between the gaps of her speech. Her end is always silent when he talks, no matter how short the comment or little question he can think to ask.
They talk about work, her church group, him quitting smoking once and for all - it's not that bad at all, mom.
She jokes sometimes, about a house, about children, Henry never knows what to say. No matter how close they are or how much she loves him, he's never been able to tell her.
It really isn't such a terrible thing to grow old and die alone for him.