They’ve all moved on now, the rest of my kin. Grown up and gone, or dead. Makes no difference. Just me and Harper left around here and he ain’t much of a conversationalist, being a dog and all. I’ve sat on this porch every night for almost sixty years. Six. Zero. Count them on your fingers, all the way from one to sixty. That’s time for you, easy to count, but hard to define, that’s what I reckon. I’ll sit here now, like I always do, and watch the sun dip behind the house across the street; then I’ll smoke and watch the comings and goings until my eyes close and my head droops to my dusty chest. Then I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll dream, maybe I won’t, but I never remember them when I wake anyhow. It wasn’t always this way: I dreamt strong when I was a young buck, but the dreams of the young are stronger than the old, no matter if they’re waking or sleeping, and that’s a fact right there.