I remember I used to look out over the gas station by where I used to work. Watching as the seasons blended into each other. Summer would turn to fall, and the leavens began to darken with old age. As soon as they seemed to blossom into the world they would leave, and the trees would be bare again until the next spring. Later the first snowfall would come, bringing melancholy romance to the hopeless lovers and the romantics. The snow would reflect the pale moonlight in the cold winter sky, glowing in a sort-of perfect pure radiance. It was cold and lonely yet somehow, I remember it being comforting. Like the moon had called for her lover that she would never see. And maybe the lonely soul who writes about the moon and snow wishes to see their lover as well, yet trapped in the melancholy woes of their head can never truly see.  

I was still young then, too busy finding my way in the world to know any better. I had the soul of an artist, but the mind of a bureaucrat. I spent all day looking out the window towards that gas station. I would watch as the owner, some old man long gone by now, greeted the customers as they walked in. He was always so inviting and open to people, even if he didn’t get so much as a thank you back. He had such a youthful spirit; I don’t think I ever saw him without a smile or a smirk or at least something. At night, if I was working late, I would step outside for a cigarette or some other source of quiet company and just listen to him. I would listen to him tell some story about his childhood, or the silly quirks of customers that had come through today. We passed the cigarette back and forth; he would talk and I would listen.  

After a while, the owner didn’t seem to come out so much. The quiet company of our talks eventually faded into oblivion. It had been 3 or 4 months since our last talk, and so I poked around the store a little after work. The store, which became so familiar to me, was empty. Gone was the joy that seemed to radiate from every shelf, counter, and wall. It was stripped of the posters and signs that once adorned it, replaced by plain pictures of hot dogs and pop. The warmth that once radiated from every shelf now seemed sterile and cold, with not even a memory of what one was. I asked the man at the front desk if the owner was there but he just pointed to a funeral card on the counter.  

I quit my job soon after. My life became so consumed by the melancholy of it all that I just couldn’t keep working there. I couldn’t keep reminding myself of the gas station; reminding myself of him. I’ve lived a good life now. I own my own store and I try my best to live up to what the old man had imparted unto me, looking for some lonely ear to share a cigarette with. From time to time, I’ll think back on the gas station. To the late-night talks, and the cigarettes crushed in the snow, and the back of the funeral card with the words “Lung Cancer Research Foundation” asking for a donation.