A sad door resting on only one of its hinges while the others sit in disrepair, spiderwebbing window to match, broken long ago, walls with peeling wallpaper, trails of seeping nicotine dripping down, and stairs that creak and groan like they’re trying to fall off.
An old home.
A streetlamp flickering as though it were alone in the universe, existing as what was likely the only entity in the empty parking lot of a foreclosed and partially torn down building, or at the very least the only remaining light.
A poor neighborhood.
A voice with raspy breathing fills the other end of the phone call, questioning how it could have come to this, how they let it happen, and wondering about how long they have left to live.
An old smoker riddled with cancer.
A field full of tall yellow grass, wide open until the treeline cut the sea of yellow off abruptly, where a rusted out Volkswagen bug sits in solidarity, the only structure seen for miles.
A forgotten love.
A long and dusty two-lane highway in the desert, sand dunes trying to take over the asphalt as it lay, straight as an arrow, without a gas station, rest stop, or end in sight for at least the next two foreboding hours.
An adventure.