Wandering
The old man sat in the chair in front of me. I wiped the drool from his wrinkly chin. The dank heat was getting to me, so I made my way over to the window. The old man grunted at me, and I replied, "No, Grandpa, I'm not leaving. I'm right over here." I stared out the window, at the soft green grass on the lawn below. Two kids were flying kites, laughing and running. I smiled to myself and watched the kites, circling above the lawn like falcons searching for food. Eyes scanning the field for a rodent, any morsel of flesh that will satisfy the hunger of the small hatchlings, their necks outstretched, grasping for food. In the nest, their three heads protrude toward the heavens, like so many small hands in school, volunteering an answer to the question that was asked by Miss Quickrach. She scans the class and chooses one of the hands. "Billy?" she calls out. Billy, the classic example of the teacher's pet, answers the question. "The Star-Spangled Banner was written by Francis Scott Key." The teacher nods her approval, and Billy smirks at young Chrissy Klabwrech. Chrissy rolls her eyes, and then laughs out loud as the small spitball spats against poor Billy's glasses, like a bug against the windshield of a car. The driver doesn't even notice; he just continues driving. His eyes are becoming heavy, and he slowly drifts off to sleep. The car begins to veer, and the man is awakened by the sound of tires on gravel. He steers back onto the road and wipes away the drool dripping down his chin, just as I had to do for the old man in the nursing home once again, after I returned from my post at the window.
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