Old Henry Vega

Old Henry Vega**

Countless cantankerous, argumentative old men perennially dwell in a fog of bitterness and regret, endlessly replaying the battles of yesteryear—both on the battlefield and within the confines of their memories.

In stark contrast, Buster the dog lies sprawled comfortably on a threadbare rug, a rusty fishing rod resting in the corner like a forgotten relic. With a soft, playful flick of his ears and a wag of his tail, Buster radiates an innocence that belies the weariness of his master, who remains immobile in his rickety chair, trapped in a world of unyielding stillness. As Buster yearns for the thrill of the outside, his bright, eager eyes search for any sign of movement, desperately hoping for a romp in the sun.

Henry, burdened with creaking joints and the relentless pangs of arthritis, suffers through each day with a grimace etched on his lined face, his varicose veins becoming increasingly pronounced like the grotesque branches of a gnarled tree. In a futile attempt to reclaim his vitality, he dabbles in acupuncture, homeopathy, and osteopathy, but these remedies offer little more than a fleeting escape from his discomfort. Each morning, he reluctantly swallows an overwhelming handful of twenty antacid pills, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health and the number of days left in him.

As he stares into the distance, lost in thoughts of his fading youth, one can’t help but wonder who will inherit the remnants of his will. What would Grandma think of old Henry Vega now, as he morphs into the somber Messiah of misery, a figure encased in sorrow, overshadowed by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams?

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