The setting sun, ending a dreary day, foretold the coming of a quiet evening. Another day ended by the bleakness of the oncoming darkness.

Out on the rough wooden dock a man sat, leaning his body against a wooden beam supporting the dock. The man had an ancient look about him with graying tufts of hair shooting out in patches from his balding head, and his face had as many wrinkles as the water below had ripples. The aged man flexed his arms back in a feeble attempt to stretch his shoulders.

This gray haired fellow stared at the sky, towards the pinholes of light that gives the darkness above it's luminous glow. Oft times he stared at the night sky, trying to reach these glorious embers, but never put forth the effort to reach his goals. He never completed the steps needed to attain them, this man, who vainly forced himself to the top first and would worry about the rest later. Like a building without any foundation, he would always collapse into himself. He could not comprehend that he had to start small to get big. Every night he stares at the sky, and every night the stars mock him for what he could have done.

Dull sounds of footfall echoed softly as a tall man made his way down the boardwalk of the dock. The man bent low and held out his hand towards the old fellow sitting down. "Come sir," the man whispered, "It's time to go. This chill night will give you sickness."

"Why do you address me so? Like I am some stranger?" Refusing the hand, the old man pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pains from his stubborn back that didn't want to move. "Chill night air," the old man spoke in a voice heavy with sarcasm, and then snorted, "bah, I've felt worse, after all I have been to Antarctica." Pausing a moment to cough he began again, "You ever been to Antarctica boy? The nights there will freeze your soul." The older man looked at the younger, expecting an answer. The younger shook his head. "Where have you been, I've been sitting around here for the longest time? Where is Margie?" The old man looked around anxiously for the woman.

The young man frowned, never has it been this bad, he thought. He hoped this wasn't a sign of the old man's passing. Over the years the young man had come to like Charley, and to see the old man in the condition that he was in now, pained the young man. Why doesn't the good Lord fix this man, he wondered?

The older man patted the younger on the back, "Well, son, are we going to stand here all night, while Margie waits inside wondering where we are?" The younger man began to walk, and the older followed along beside him. His eyes strayed to the unattainable stars; "someday", he whispered, "someday."

They approached a large white-brick house, with weeping willow trees along the back yard. The house was over the size of a football field, with many windows illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. A bushy hedgerow lined the outside of a walk that led through the middle of the courtyard toward the docks. Small white marble statues, benches, and a few fountains, decorated the rest of the courtyard. Chirping crickets and other nocturnal animals could be heard throughout the yard, the animals didn't quiet as the two men shuffled past their hiding places.

They came upon the door, but before the young man could open it, Charley grabbed his wrist, "I've got something I've been meaning to tell you," he said gently, "your mother, my Margie, is dead." Forcing him to face what he had repressed all those years ago, tears began to leak out of his eyes and stream down his cheeks. The older man's body stiffened and he gave the younger man a strange look. "You're not my son, who are you," Charley demanded of the younger man. Again the younger was about to answer, but a moment of clarity struck the older, "I remember now, Margie dying, my son dying. This is the hospital I was committed to what seems like ages ago." Charley took a deep breath and carried on in a somber tone, "I'm tired of living this lie both it and I are getting too old. Why can't things be like they were before?"

The younger man was about to respond, when he noticed that the old man was staring through him, not at him. He was speaking to someone else. Quickly he turned and was expecting to see whom the old man was talking to. "Margie, it is you," the old man proclaimed! "It's been so long, is our son with you?" Turning back around the younger man saw Charley clutching his chest. "Margie wait, wait for me," both men were crying now. Charley's right arm was outstretched trying to reach for her hand, "I'm too afraid to do this by myself; don't leave. Don't leave me here, Margie I love you don't leave me, " the last came out as a strangled cry! The old man slumped forward, into the young man’s arms breathing heavily.

"Why did she leave me here, so alone," the sobbing old man wondered? The younger man had no answer, but Charley continued grimly anyways, "She left me here to fend for myself."

The courtyard filled with a brilliant white light and the sound of trumpets announcing the arrival of someone great. "Here he comes, he won't let harm come to me, I am not alone," he whispered his last statement in defiance to what he said earlier! The old man became a dead weight in the young man's arms, and the young man dropped to his knees cradling the old man's head in his lap. It was peaceful in the courtyard, and he felt joy for the old man for he knew of whom the old man was referring to and where the old man had gone. Despite knowing this he wept for the loss of this man; it was his first time losing a patient.

After a few minutes he gently placed the old man's head onto the walk, gathered himself, got up and opened the door to the building. With one last look over his shoulder at the old man he walked inside to find his boss. Only a second after entering a short blond haired fellow, his boss, roared, "where you been? Where is the old man?"

"He just passed, clutching his chest, I think he had a heart attack," the young man's voice solemn, his face grim. "He's laying out there on the walk. Strange he seemed to be getting better, I wonder what happened." With no rational support to it he felt the old man's death was his fault. As if there was something he could have done. Again tears formed in the wells of his eyes.

His boss shot him a bland look, "it's about damn time, that old fool has been nothing but a problem ever since he got here. Him and his delusions." His boss said this as if he were talking about pouring a glass of water. The tall man stared at the short man, mouth agape. He wondered how this man could be so cold and heartless?

As the young man turned around, he tossed his ID badge to the ground and left the asylum.