The Snag Tree

       Nine months ago.

     He sits alone in his kitchen, calloused fingers picking at a knot on the table, comparing it to the several tumors that still remain. Bored with this game, he leans back in his chair and rubs his knees for a little while. The pain only lessening to a certain degree.

     Seven months ago.

     A knock jars him awake. Robe loosely hanging from his gaunt frame, he opens the door to stare down an empty hallway. Traces of a possible smile fall away. His red and puffy eyes unnerved by the all too familiar loss.

     Five months ago.

     Once again sitting at his kitchen table, gazing through a clear vessel of dark piss at an even darker knot, pondering if these tumors were always within him as dormant buds.

     Three months ago.

     Another knock elevates him. Forgoing the threadbare robe, he limps from the bedroom to the front door.  Disheartened by the empty hallway but nonplussed by the unassuming loaf of bread left for him upon it's nodular floorboards.

     One month ago.

     He brushes some crumbs off the table's surface and into a speckled palm, weighs them against the last few days, then crushes them in his hand. Bored once again, he goes back to picking at the wood's torn grains and knots.