He had felt a bit depressed the last couple of days. Chico was

concerned. Felt something was off. Amiss. Frank had not been eating

large breakfasts as usual. Ate a little. Went out to feed the birds and

deer and squirrels…in a perfunctory manner. Without love. He sat at

his rocking chair and looked to the woods in an aimless way.

His breathing was heavy. Something was tormenting him. His eyes

looked sad. His walking bent. He had aged a century in a week.

Something had to happen. Frank called his friend, the doctor. Jose.

He arrived looking apprehensive. Went into the cabin. Locked the door.

He and Frank had a long conversation. Chico could not discern a single

word. As: out…woods…food…chicken…it was all abstract to him.

Which is the way it’s supposed to be when two people talk about

matters that pertain to a mental state.

Jose left…Chico could hear the shower running. Frank screaming loud.

After twenty minutes he came out of the cabin and called Chico in for

dinner. Frank had a hearty dinner. Sat outside in the porch. Fed his

furry friends. The moon started shining. The stars too. He had put the

radio playing Bach. Had a strong one to nurse for an hour.

Had a smoke. Went inside. Brushed his teeth. His face and went to bed.

Chico jumped on the bed. Frank read for two hours before falling

asleep. He slept good.

Life was going to be good.

EO