The
Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website
The Opposite Of Hopeless
by
Janelle Zimmerman
The old man sat at the bus stop. He wasn’t waiting for a bus; I could tell by the way his eyes never
moved to the incoming traffic. His foggy blue eyes were glued to the passing people. His clothes
were shabby, and they were inadequate for the current temperature. Violent convulsions ran
through the ancient bones, as his body tried to keep warm.
The old man caught my eye, across the busy street, and the facade of dignity he masked himself with crumbled. The convulsions
continued, and I saw that the old man was crying. Not the rash sobbing of someone who is angry
or distraught, but the quiet, heart-wrenching tears of one who has really lost something. What had
he lost? Did he once have a wife, children? What had happened to them? The old man clutched
his dented tin cup like it was the last thing on earth. He kept his eyes downcast, so as not to give
away the tears.
A young woman walked by just then, and dropped a single coin into the cup,
making a very empty, hollow noise. The woman heard this noise, and dropped more coins into the
cup, as though to hide from it. The old man looked up quickly and mumbled a short, “God
bless," and slumped down onto the exposed bench.
Just then, foreboding thunder sounded and the man took shelter under an overhang. My bus appeared, and while the rest of the passengers
hurried aboard, I stood and watched the old man. He went into the nearest café, reached into his
pocket, took out a very large bill, and paid for his meal.
Critique this work
Click on the book to leave a comment about this work