SwÕt Old Men karen runge
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weet old men smell like pipe tobacco, mothballs, wool. Sometimes soap. The bristle on their cheeks and chins is sharp and shock-white, patterned by old scars, blemishes. The skin that hangs from their necks is pliant and loose as new leather, beaten soft. Their faces dragged and hanging limp with the weight of time and memory. Old men fasten their belts high above their hips. They comb their fine, frail strands of hair into shiny-white wisps that web across their spreading bald spots. They do this to hide the vulnerable stretches of scalp that are worn so thin, shaded red, mottled with marks. They don’t care if you laugh at them for this, because they know something about vanity. They live every day trapped in the bodies that are slowly degrading them. They know that this is already happening to you, too. Only your denial of it is still convincing. Some old men crave attention. They sit straining on their chairs with blankets rumpled over their knees, reaching out to you, their movements jerking and slow. Their tirades fall delirious, their bodies are infirm. They wail for lost wives and absent children. In their eyes, you can glimpse their desperation. You can smell death floating around them, hovering like a halo on the surface of their skin. Old men know all the worst kinds of jokes and stories. Sexist, racist, sick. It’s our own fault that the ones we tend to love a little more are the ones who like to shock us the most. They pull small children up onto their laps, offering secret sips of whisky, and with bleary eyes they begin to recite those stories of the sexist, the racist, the sick. It’s only the stronger old men we can still find ways to love. They comb their white hair and scratch their rough chins, speaking in steady, drawling tones when they tell stories about all the things the younger ones missed. Tell, and tell again. Repeat, and then twist. They don’t care how many times you’ve heard it, and you never seem to mind listening again. It’s too reassuring to the newer generations, to see such character burning bright in the hearts of dying old men. When you were young, your own sweet old man used to sit you on his lap and pinch your knees. With your head on his shoulder, your ear so close to his thinly beating heart, you could smell pipe tobacco, mothballs, soap. He’d grab your hand and pretend to want to eat it – pulling your plump, pink fist toward that gaping black hole of pale white
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