Waiting on Yesterday

He looks back—constantly.

It wasn’t always this way, but, even if he tried, he'd be unable to tell you when anything had changed. The road he'd traveled turned, and, without realizing why, the path ahead became less important to him, than the steps he’d taken yesterday.

Every minute, every decision and every choice, are weighed against what he once had, and what he’s lost. Nothing shines, and nothing sparkles in his world, when compared with what life had taken from him. He doesn’t understand the losses, but he sees the unfairness of it with a distilled clarity.

He never had children. A few of his wives had children, but none were truly his. He could reproduce, but not father. Children seemed unnecessary and expensive, and he’d learned early to claim his share ahead of all others.

He looks back—constantly.

He defines his world by what he’s lost, and guards his dwindling hoard with the obsession of a miser. Nothing is too small to steal, nothing too insignificant to secretly pocket. As always, his share comes first, and at the expense of others.

He believes nothing, and believes in nothing.

We all die alone. We may be surrounded by loved ones, but, in the end, death is a journey we embark upon alone.

Some believe there is a period of revelation during the dying process.

Perhaps that is when he will come to fully understand the price he's paid for impatiently squandering his life, waiting on yesterday.