1943

He lives in squalor. Lights are dim, heat is gone. His winded breaths puffs of air, steam spewing from a kettle. Alone, with no one to share in his misery, his wealth is gone, passed from the dirt-caked hand of one beggar to another. Still, the worn leather sits resting in his back pocket. A vessel for money, but none inside. Within, a few coins clang, the bleak peal of a clock ringing through the square, both hands pointing North as if reaching for the sky. Why do his hands travel so often to the supple wallet’s skin? Clutching at the empty dream of something more. The world is unsure. Only the rats and roaches scuttle from crumb to crumb, their footfalls spreading whispers of the true treasure that lies within. 1943 it reads, the frayed photo of the girl with lips curled into a smile. A single ray of light shadowed by the memory of something lost.