It lay on the front walk. Wrapped in an orange plastic baggie. I watch it from the window, that bright beacon, begging me to rescue it.
It calls to me. “Look! The Times’ Crossword, and don’t forget the sudoku.”
I gaze at it as morning slips to the afternoon. “I’m the Sunday paper; comics, sales stuffers, coupons and news!”
The afternoon wanes, still it beckons. “Editorials?”
Just before the sun sets, I rise from my chair and bring it in.
Turning the pages hesitantly.
I gasp at his picture; though I knew it would be there.
Under the heading: Obituaries.
