The rubber tip on his cane wobbled as he pressed it into the concrete and slid his feet out of the rain-washed Honda. Freezing droplets pelted his cap and soaked through to his skin as he stood and guided the car door gently closed. He squinted up at the house before him, the neat shingles still proud behind sheets of winter drizzle. The mansion boasted the work of his father in his youth, a modern Ozymandias. All it lacked was a sneering bust atop the roof to preside over the years as he had over his son. The boy sprouted tall then creaked low, but never ceased trying to wrench a masterpiece out of himself.

After he sidled through the front door, he did not bend to wrest off the stiff leather shoes he had felt obligated to don. He crept into the dining room where the deep red walls trimmed with gold surrounded his father’s crowning glory, the handmade rosewood table set. Tugging his sleeve over his cracked palm, he slowly wiped the table of dust. His leathery face, broken by wrinkles, reflected childlike in the resurrected gloss. He smiled widely at his work -- almost a new creation. His arthritic shoulders tensed, his ears perked, doggedly anticipating a murmured sign of approval.

He was met with the timeworn, bitter grip in his chest, and his gaze abandoned the intricately carved rosewood as he drifted out. With equal satisfaction and sorrow, he recognized the ancient regal wallpaper curling in the corners and the soft, deafening plink of water leaking through the pipes.