Almost (Don't Call it a Comback Challenge)
It had been years since he left the house. Outside his lawn looked unkempt. His wife got everything they needed. His needs were met. But his need for society was left how he wanted it; bitter and alone.
The war left his leg mangled. Shrapnel was imbeded in parts of his knee and leg, and he had limited mobility. His dancing was over.
His wife was affected as greatly as he was. She had loved him. They would go dancing. He was brilliant. She regularly stepped on his feet, but he didn’t mind. He was noble in that regard. He was a professional. Her favorite memory was their first dance. The song was ‘Put You’re Head On My Shoulders’. She still smiled at the memory.
One day while siting in his chair, he heard the radio:
‘Put your head on my shoulder
Hold me in your arms, baby
Squeeze me oh so tight
Show me that you love me too’
He stood. His wife watched. He hadn’t danced since the war. She stared as he called her up. She smiled.
He fell, back into his chair
“Almost.”