waiting to leave

He was sitting restlessly over the edge of the crippled stone-bench, his shaking hands adjusting the glasses over his nose first, and tapping the walking stick on the ground, that his age and his family had gifted him in concern, next.

He bent over, examined the road, sighed, mumbled something to himself, nodded his head, rubbed his fore-head, pulled his ears, and then bent over to do it all again.

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He was waiting for his friend, a companion he found who matched his age, who soothed his emotions, and the park hours were their happy hours as they both had the same sort of experiences and expectations to talk about.

He waited and waited, that day, the next day and for the following three days, until he learnt from one of the regular walkers of the park that the old man's companion had passed away all of a sudden, without saying a word to his waiting companion.

Then he realized that he need not wait for his friend anymore, but for his day, to leave.

written in response for FSF by Lillie McFerrin. This week's prompt is 'waiting'.