Gerald unlocked and opened the window above the sink, refusing to see the dirty dishes below. He had so much to do, it felt onerous. For now, all those chores would remain intentions on a sticky note on the refrigerator. He'd get around to the mundane, but for now, Albert Einstein's eyes peered up at him from a folded t-shirt. It had been worth delaying the folding of laundry just to sit still, listening to Bach and feeling spring make flowers outside in the green morning. He allowed himself these brief reprieves from the monotony of his recurring discomfort. Daydreaming came easy to him, and he was just launching into a quantum physics reverie because of the Einstein t-shirt when unwanted thoughts intruded. Whenever his body felt bad, which was often, he thought about his mother. He remembered her dying with no memories left, food-tube in her gut, dependent on everybody finally. Gerald had made it past all that. For his age, he did pretty well. But it hurt to move, so often he just sat. If he sat too long, he turned on the TV. Then he worried about everything. The weather was too scary. Volcanoes were erupting everywhere. Forests were on fire everywhere. He couldn't see The mountains anymore. Was it smoke? The media no longer even attempts the truth. always lied to us, he thought bitterly. Always. But Bach intervened like a Buddhist monk. Music insisted on the present moment. You simply could not hear music properly and worry about the future. The music was his medicine: a well executed glissando could always cut right through the crap, he reflected. And there was so much crap. The older he became, the faster time raced, like multiple universes within just one detail. He was glad to have too many thoughts sometimes. He felt young when his mind raced, until he moved his body, but suddenly he had to move something. He heard a rukus in the front yard. He struggled to his feet, wishing he'd gotten those knee replacements. The sensation in his knees as they straightened was like crackling hot spikes. He thought about one of the top five regrets if dying people. They wished they'd let themselves be happier. He was happier as a child, when his body was new and he still believed in people. He looked out the front door. It was just some dogs barking. It would be a cloudy afternoon, cloudy like his cataract eyes. He would play some cool blues, maybe some Otis Span. He says the blues don't like nobody. And that's the damn truth if Gerald ever heard it! He glanced at the darkening sky, where a hawk circled above him. He recoiled at the sight of the hawk's prey, left shredded on the driveway. Gerald had just seen the flicker at the backyard bird feeder, alive, vibrant. Had he enticed it, only to be killed? Gerald glanced at the ash tree across The street. The crows had been the noise ruckus. They had gathered to mourn, shrieking their warning to other crows and scolding the hawk. Gerald was surprised how loud they were, as if they truly cared. He went back inside and turned on the music.