The window sill

The walking stick guides me to my rocking chair. Placed near the window, it gives me a clear view of the world outside my eighth-floor flat. I can hear shrieks and squeals of children playing in the clearing near the building. A few decades back, I would be there, standing, watching my son as he played with his friends. 

Now I am all alone. The son, himself a father, is a thousand miles away in a distant land. With his mother passing away a few years back, my companion is the silence in this room. 

A pigeon, its feathers ruffled, eyes tired and movements weary, settles down on the window sill. 

“All alone, my friend?” I said. 

It turns its head and looks at me, but does not fly away. 

The two of us sit and watch as the sun sets far away.