Today he sits by the road, playing his tambourine as the cars race by. His sister gave him the musical instrument years ago, when she was young enough to think that a hippie was a new thing to be and naïve enough to believe that he would be grateful. He only found the tambourine this morning. One of those cruel jokes that time or co-incidence like to play.
His sister died three years ago, mowed down on this very road, on her way home from celebrating her divorce. For those three, wonderful years, he was an only child again. A man of expectations. It was less than a week after the funeral that he moved into his new apartment, with its Spartan furniture and cages of exotic birds. The perfect place for a wealthy man to wait to become wealthier still.
Two weeks ago, a multiple pile up on this same road removed both his parent and the last barriers to his future. Last night, he drove along the road, dreaming of all that he would do.
This afternoon they read the will. It gave everything to a brother he never even imagined that he had. A refined act of spite that showed how well his parents had known him after all.
Time and this road.
Today he sits and plays the tambourine and weeps for the first time in his life.
Damian Mark Whittle