In the middle of the night, or to be more accurate, in the early hours approaching morning, Harry wakes, as is his habit, in the stillness that surrounds him and stumbles out of bed, grabs his robe, slips on his fleece-lined slippers, and makes his way gingerly down the hall to his den. He sits in his reading chair but does not bother to turn on the lamp, the nightlight giving enough illumination for him to pour a shot of whiskey from the bottle that always sits close by into the shot glass always ready to receive it. A legal size writing pad attached to a clipboard lies on a small coffee table beside the chair as well as two Cross pens, a volume of poems by Pavese, a book on the history of Southern Italy, The Twenties by Edmund Wilson, and a novel by Jose Saramago that he has not read yet. There is also Jamie’s last book of poetry that bears a dedication to him and an inscription that reads: “As always, for my father.” He fingers the cover of the book but does not open it, knowing each and every poem by heart, knowing how the rereading of even a line will cause the loss of an hour’s needed sleep. Instead he has a second shot of whiskey and broods over the previous day’s events, and plots his course of action for the day that lies ahead. This is what he refers to as The Frank Sinatra Hours, and though he does not play any music or wax sentimental with a silent bartender, he does reflect on his foibles, ponder his options, regret his past. There is so much to do and so little time left to do it. He is, after all, at that point in life when faced with his own mortality and though not frightened, certainly not overly enthusiastic about meeting what must surely be an empty void at the end. He wishes he had the comfort of faith, of a belief in any kind of salvation or afterlife where he might have the chance to meet those who have gone on before and those who will follow once again. But all he sees is an end to this and nothing more. Just a longer uninterrupted sleep than he can imagine and no need for whiskey, or literature, or the touch of another human being to soothe the aching of his heart.He sits alone in the semi-darkness staring at nothing, his mind trying to come to a peace he knows he’ll never attain, and with the bottle, his trusty compatriot, within arm’s reach. And this is his tableau until the sun creeps up beyond the drawn curtains and lights the world just outside. Only then does he doze off in his chair.