Stroke

by John Sheirer

He awoke confused but not much worse than fifty-seven years of previous mornings. The town dump opened early, so he gathered his life’s remnants, some to be recycled, some discarded forever. The bright blue bins held a symphony of color, a halo shimmering above the cans and bottles. The compactor hypnotized. He smelled smoke but landfills don’t burn. His knees crumpled to pavement two steps short of his car door, both palms reaching. He couldn’t feel the neighborly hand on his back but heard, “You okay there, buddy?” He could think the word no but couldn’t speak it. Still can’t.