Bitter Old Man
His son, his namesake, pledged to never see or speak to him, never to enter the house until it was funeral time.
On his bed his hands are shriveling and gnarled, evidence of years of toil, toil he thought so unappreciated, work ignored, sweat unnoticed.
His stomach churns and his legs move to curb the pain.
If only you would have tried to reach me, tried a small amount of kindness.
Soon all your pain and ugliness will end.