mindful

He sits in that room in the attic of the house across the street every night.  He's sitting at a table with his hands clasped in front of him a little like he's praying right now.  I don't see anything on the table in front of him, though maybe if I had a real telescope instead of cheap binoculars, I'd pick up more details.  He nods his head a little bit and just might be mumbling to himself, either in delusions or in prayer.  He lives all alone in that attic; the house is a duplex with one apartment downstairs and that attic living space with its own entrance at the back.  I've never seen him come out, but every once in a while a business-like woman goes in and leaves a few hours later.  Maybe she's his daughter or other family member.  Maybe she's a social worker.  She only comes during the day, so I can't see in the window and observe what she does.  I wonder if the man sits all day and all night at that table.  I've never even seen him change clothes.  He's always wearing that black robe-like thing.  He looks a little like some Renaissance portraits, actually, with the heavy folds of cloth and his pious posture and all framed by the light of the window.  He's bald and his head shines under the bare lightbulb.  His face doesn't look terribly wrinkled to me, but again, my equipment isn't the greatest.  It's strange that nobody actually knows who he is.  Or maybe they do know, but for some reason they don't want to tell me.  Whenever I ask around, I get shrugged shoulders, blank looks, or even a waving hand of annoyance.  So, there's no information.  I have to imagine everything.

I imagine his name is George.  He was once a rich and powerful man, but made some bad decisions and, like in a Poe story, received his just desserts.  He made some bad bets maybe, ended up with too many debts or creditors.  Maybe he's in hiding.  The pressures of his lifestyle got to him.  He ended up killing somebody, maybe one of his creditors, maybe his love.  Yes, she asked too many embarrassing questions and he killed her in a fit of rage.  Unfortunately, her father was one of his supporters and creditors.  So George had to flee for his life.  And now he sits up there, with a name that isn't his own, with the feeling that any minute somebody might find out who he is and the gunman will come for him.  He prays all night while he sits and rocks, hoping above all that he dies quietly, right there at that table, a heart attack or stroke, something that will do the job quickly.  There's just something terrible about a public death, or a loud one with explosions and screams.  It's much more dignified to go without making a sound.  So that's why he's there, all by himself all the time (except for that one woman), he's under protection and fear weighs on him at every moment.