here lies my finished version of writing assignment number 2.
your cold.
whats worse is that your cold and you havent even known it.
you've been asleep the whole time.
but then some noise-was it the phone ringing? no, no, it was the neighbors dog.-woke you up and you realized that you had kicked off all the blankets and sheets through the night.
and now your freezing.
curled up in a tiny ball with your blankets wrapped up as tight as you can get them, shivering, wishing you could get back to sleep.
and this here is when you decide that you will never leave the house again.
you'll probably be dead in a few days anyway.
you know it.
you can feel it in your bones.
you have kept the same job, grocery store cashier, for the last twenty four years.
there will be no retirement party for you.
no gold watch.
hell, most of your co-workers dont even know your name.
all you have is a worn green apron,
and a meager, but steady, paycheck.
all you can hope for is that gold pin.
the one that reads "twenty five years of faithful service."
but you wont make it that far, you think, as you rub your legs together to make body heat.
it will be anytime now.
you have already lived such a full lifetime.
child of the great depression.
brief stint in the war.
forty years as a clerk at the post office.
loving husband and father.
it was a good life.
but its over now.
it was a good life.
but you started a new life sometime ago.
you got the job at the grocery store just to have something to do.
a few days of work each week to keep you away from the house.
you were driving your wife crazy with your insistance on fixing everything.
even the things that werent broken.
so you became a grocer.
just to pass the winter.
just until it warmed up.
then you would see the world.
finally spend time with the grandkids.
learn to enjoy your retirement.
but then your wife got sick.
the bills piled up.
and now, twenty fours years later, you lie alone and cold in a bed that has long lost its comfort.
you look up at your worn green apron hanging on the closet door.
the silver pin on it reads "twenty years of faithful service"
you think that you could make it to twenty five as you began to get out of bed.
its good to have something to live for.
11:00 a.m. - 2005-01-04
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