Read my super short story for a class? I need advice/critique..!

[Sinnia Verika 6]

Picture Frame

 

I gaze across the room from my place on the mantle.

 

There isn’t much to look at, at least not any more. I remember a time when laughter and merriment filled the air, and the fire burning beneath me kept the room full of warmth and happiness. Children sat before me – never noticing me of course – talking and playing with each other while adults sat in large chairs behind them. Over time others joined me up here on the mantle. And as more time passed, they left me.

 

Now there sits only an old man in a chair, gazing into a fire absent of warmth. I've watched him for a while now, day after day, month after month. His hair has thinned into an unkempt mess, a shriveled lawn of dead grass. His eyes stare absently forwards, dull and boring, for a reason I figured out long ago. He’s thinking about them again.

 

Like I said, there isn't much to look at.

 

This waste of a man scarcely leaves the chair here now, only being absent from my sight for short measures of time. He never does much. He sits and thinks, and thinks and sits.

 

It really is a sorry sight.

 

His legs shift and his hands press down hard against the arm rests. I can’t believe it – he’s standing! His old, frail frame shuffles its way towards me, and he wheezes with nearly every step. His long boney fingers reach out and grab me, and a splinter finds its way into his thumb. He carries my old, frail frame back to the chair.

 

Oh no, I think, not this again.

 

He falls into a heap of old memories, feelings, and dreams. All things that are long gone. They aren't worth reminiscing, which I suppose is an irony that I shouldn't be allowed to think. He brings me to his forehead, frailness against frailness, and begins to sob.

 

“Why?” he asks. “Why are they gone?”

 

I’m sorry, I say. I do not know.