Loss

I sheet of dust came off the file as I balanced on the bedside table to reach the shelves. The exercise bike, boxes, picture frames, files, books and a rolled up rug spread chaotically over my old bedroom floor. I was searching for my degree certificates in amongst the junk which had been shifted from other rooms, that were in use, in the house. I stumbled upon my creative writing - a long forgotten stash of poems, plays and short stories handed in for inspection by an ageing professor with spidery hand writing and a posh voice...
Cracked, lined skin.
Grey, wiry hair.
Wrinkled fingers fumble, the crinkling of plastic,
that earthy, musty scent.
Folding and filling the small white paper,
his lips wet it, the fingers working without guidance.
Click,
a flame momentarily lights up his face and the lines appear deeper - more troubled.
His brow full of memories.
His strong resonant voice echoes, echoes louder than before.
Smoke collects about him and the tightness returns making it difficult to breath.
Tap,
the ash hits the tray.
His foot rests heavily, awkwardly.
He drinks the cheap bitter coffee - he's not staying, but he has nothing else to do.
His loose change bounces on the hard plastic.
He stands up and finishes his coffee as if he has business to attend to.