Mr. Blane stared out the window at the motorcycle that was rusting in the field across the road. It had been there for as long as he could remember. It was a Norton Commando, exactly like the one he had owned years ago.
His bike had meant freedom, travel, and adventure; even now, the memory of it was a means to escape. He could feel the tears welling up again. I could fix it, he thought. All I need is my tools and some time. I’ll find out who owns it, and pay them whatever they want. It’s not right to dump it in a field and forget about it.
The nurse knocked softly before she entered. “Time for your pills, Mr. Blane. They’ll help you sleep.”
He nodded, and slowly turned away from the window. “Any mail for me – any calls – has anyone asked about me?”
“No, sir. I’m sorry.”
He reluctantly took the pills, and the nurse gently helped him lie back down on the nursing home bed.
Copyright © 2018 Kenneth M. Hill
All Rights Reserved
photo courtesy of Vulcanrider @ pixabay.com