The old man stood silently in the tomato patch with its brilliant red orbs of summer next to the square patch of yellow flowers that were showing the first signs of withering from the August heat. The tiny wheels of the green oxygen tank had started to bury themselves in the rich mulch--Uncle Ray’s legacy of forty years of careful gardening in the same patch of Ozark soil. The tiny plastic lifeline led from the tank to the little Y that fit neatly into the nostrils A sound like miniature air brakes joined the sounds of crickets and birds in and around the garden each time Ray took a breath.
He took a step, but the little piece of equipment keeping him alive didn’t want to move from the rut in which it had gotten stuck...
