Farewell To All That

Billy knocked his third cigarette from the packet, brought it to his lips and lit it. From way up here he could see everything; the all-too-familiar roads, parks and neighbourhoods stretching out towards the coast, the whole goddamn, slumbering old city, glinting and glimmering in the early morning sun.

Across the familiar skyline he began to pick out all of the monuments to his youth. The old schoolyard where he’d learnt to play basketball, the spire of Saint Francis, where his mother had dragged him every Sunday since birth, the ‘Calisto Club’ where he’d met Lorna, and Carly, and Pam. Billy smiled to himself and took another drag of his cigarette, exhaling out of the corner of his mouth and sending smoke wisps spirlalling into the cloudless sky above.

In the distance he could just make out the hopsital where mother had died the year past. The hospital in which he’d sat night after night for two months, dosed up on coffee while Irene had slowly wasted to nothing. And next to it the cemetery where she’d been laid to rest on a wet Sunday afternoon in March.

Billy yawned, a deep yawn, and ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He knocked the dead ash from the end of his cigarette onto the stone steps where he sat, and rose to his feet. He drank in one last deep breathe of the crisp morning air and then, turning away from the city, he walked the few short steps to his car.

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Tim Waltho

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