Ernie sits alone on a worn bench under a wide oak tree, looking out over the quiet of a cemetery lawn. He talks to an imaginary companion.
You don’t notice when it starts happening. One day you’re laughing with your friends, cursing the rain, making plans for tomorrow. And then, slowly, tomorrow comes and they’re not there.
First it was Peter; died in his forties, heart just gave out. That one hit hard. He had a laugh like thunder, filled every room. Then Sam: cancer. Didn’t tell anyone until it was too late. I still reach for my phone, thinking I’ll call him about the footie.
Close to eighty-five now, the house is too big and the rooms echo. I walk through them, talking to ghosts. Sometimes I hear footsteps behind me in the hallway, and I turn, hopeful, only to find empty air.
First, you go to funerals with a black tie and a firm handshake. Later, you go with a sort of quiet dread, wondering who will be next. And now? Now there’s no one left to invite to my funeral.
It’s weird: to survive everyone you love. There’s no glory in it. Just silence. I sit in this house full of photographs and echoes, and the world keeps spinning like it doesn’t notice I’m still here.
Maybe I just forgot to die when the others did; still, I sit here. Loneliness isn’t just the lack of company; it’s the sting of remembering how full life once felt.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 