“Hello, old friend, it has been a while since we sat and talked,” said the hobo to the moon.
Sam had traveled the world as a cook’s helper on a tramp steamer, hitched a ride on a slow-moving freight train, and once stowed away in a mail bag on a flight from Hong Kong to Istanbul.
Sam had seen all the adventure life had to offer, except the one that scared him more than a pouncing tiger—getting married.
“I know I haven’t been the good friend, but things have been busy of late with me digging coal,” said the tramp.
After serving in the Great War, Sam lost his desire to travel and soon found himself drifting from town to town, picking up odd jobs to make ends meet.
“Being down in them pits all night just didn’t feel right, so I finished my time, got my pay packet, and headed out west,” Sam said.
Time had finally caught up with Sam, and his days of free-range roaming were soon to end.
“Doc says I got Consumption, and I’d be lucky to see next month. It was those damn Huns and their mustard gas that weakened my constitution,” said Sam.
Sam wanted to set things right during his final days, so he wrote a letter to Sally Barnsted, confessing his love and saying he was awfully sorry for not being brave enough to wed her.
“I bought a bottle of Muscatel so we could chat like in the old days on the deck of those steamers,” said the man.
Sam wanted no pity, so rather than head to a sanatorium and wither away, he made up his mind to die on his terms.
“I have enjoyed my time and will surely miss it, but a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, and that means passing over and looking whoever’s there straight in the eye,”
Sam chose to die in the desert, where his bones could watch the moon pass overhead in a starry sky.
“Here’s to you, the only one who ever listened to me and never judged what I said. I’ll miss our talks but shall see you crossing the sky until time turns my bones to dust,” remarked the hobo as he finished the bottle and lay down for a long rest.
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