To Look Forward

He was always at the back of the bus, holding court in the centre seat, lapping up laughs won by his wit. Boys basked in his attention, girls blushed when he brushed passed them in the corridor. Too lazy for an athlete, too cool for a scholar, his popularity stemmed from the cult of personality.

It saw him through. No, it flew him on.

Those who were lucky enough to be reflected in his dazzle were held in similar awe. Those who attracted his attention as the butt of jokes, the prey of the prankster, still hide their scars.

He looks out of his house, The House With The View, the call it, locally, and looks out upon a different landscape than that which spreads out before him; he looks out on the landscape of his life.

And then he looks away.

Each night there is a little less whiskey in the bottle. Each night the pain creeps in a little further. Each night he feels a little lonelier. Each night the grinding tedium of his life becomes a little harder to bear. Each night he stays up a little later, looks back a little more.

If only he would look up, look forward, he would see that it is not too late, not too late at all.