To Be Frank

Frank wakes up at 4 am to let the dog out. He boils water for tea. He prefers coffee but doesn’t like the smell. Green tea is for the morning and chamomile for the evening. Morning tea is accompanied by the New York Times crossword puzzle. He buys newspapers from the 80’s off eBay because he doesn’t like to keep up with the world. Frank knows it’s easier to live in the past.

The dog is named Mister after the way his previous owner jabbed a finger into Frank’s chest and said “Listen here, mister.” He wasn’t born from anger or betrayal, but his name has its roots deep in them, and Mister thinks that’s what matters. Mister is a mutt with a graying salt and pepper muzzle and a missing right leg that gives him the appearance of more pep than he possesses. His eyes have the kind of sadness only an old dog can carry, born from the years of giving unconditionally to a man who gives conditionally. Mister loves Frank and Frank loves Mister.

Frank is remarkable in the same way every aging man is. That is to say, he is not remarkable at all. He is crow's feet. He is leathered skin. His voice rasps and his eyes turn down at the corners. Aging doesn’t bother Frank; forgetting does. He is nostalgic for happier times, like when Mister had 4 legs. Men often feel they are alone in their longing. They often feel it most at 4 PM.

Frank is retired but sometimes forgets that he is. Some mornings he starts to pull on his Post Office uniform before he remembers. Some mornings he makes it all the way to the car in his white and blue garb. Forty years dedicated to being the messenger of others truth is not easily forgotten. Losing love isn’t easy. Dedication is the same thing as love to Frank.

Frank doesn’t like to think about what he regrets in life. A conversation here, a truth there. The thinking is easy to stop but not how he feels. He notices the haves and have nots most while doing the mundane. Doing the laundry. Brushing his teeth. Washing dishes. It’s mostly the have nots. In those moments, his chest tightens and he can’t talk. He knows it’s another Frank, in another timeline, doing what he didn’t. He doesn’t believe in ghost stories except maybe the ones he writes himself.

The bar of soap in Frank’s bathroom is lavender scented. It’s the same size as a quarter now. But Frank doesn’t waste things. He will replace it only after it has disintegrated in his hand. As long as it can fulfill its purpose, he will use it. Even if it means a slow and crumbly ending. Better to be dead than useless Frank says. Frank is not always right.

Mister lost his leg to a rattlesnake bite in the mountains of Western Colorado where the desert gives in hues of purple and gold, and takes in cold nights and small venoms. Mister holds no ill will toward the snake and still loves how the desert smells in the rain. Time hasn’t been cruel to Mister in the way it is to some dogs, but every day he feels the deep readiness to move on from his aching knees and small life into whatever comes next. Every day he relates more to the sad bar of soap Frank insists on keeping around as not to waste any of its' potential, but they both know it’s more than that. Mister sticks around for Frank, the same way he knows Frank sticks around for him; being loyal means making sacrifices.