“Pops?” The old miner scratched his head and kicked at the dirt. A look of remembrance turned into a smile. “Hard worker, he was. His shoulders were always carrying something.” 

Turning his hat in his hands, Clyde looked to the floor. “And what? Waste my time with more fantasies?” 

“Don’t remember.” he replied as he dropped into his armchair. “Not keen on remembering dreams. Or the past.”

Clyde turned to met the anon face-to-face, his eye salmost searing into he gray face of his questioner. “I’ll always be proud of those two. Always.”

“No.” he answered again. His steps slowed only briefly as he came across the realization that even he wouldn’t know what to say when he saw them.

“No.” he answered gruffly as he continued on his way. “Don’t talk to me.” was all he added as he trudged along.

An indistinguishable mumble and Clyde slowly lowered his pickaxe. He Tilted the hat on his head, placed his axe on his shoulder and headed off. With a mind filled with fright and anxiousness he was unsure what would encounter.

He stared at the anon in disbelief and offered two more words: “Not possible.”

Clyde only had two words in response: “What? WHAT!?”

Clyde pulled his hat down, trying to hide the pain the question brought bubbling up. “Not well enough.” he whispered.