The Spark

The old man walked over to the rocking chair, which had worn lines into the wood of his front porch. Easing into the chair, he pushed his long white beard against his chest as he had done for nearly every day over the past two decades. The porch overlooked acres of farmland that were his once, but have since been sold off to a younger generation.
As the man gently rocked, he looked down at his calloused hands and realized he had forgotten his lemonade inside the house. He stood up and headed back into the house. The old wooden screen door bounced lazily against its frame.
He walked down the small hallway, back into the kitchen and grabbed the sweaty glass. He guzzled down half of it at once and poured himself more. Looking at the window at his backyard, an assembled mess of rusted junk, he frowned and turned back towards the hallway.
The screen door redundantly bounced again as he made his way back to the chair. He sat for several minutes in the morning hours holding the bottom of the glass against his right knee and examining the wavy rows of corn as the wind blew.
A small girl walked along the row that lined his property. She stopped to examine the old man quizzically. A memory awoke deep within, and he stuck his tongue out. She giggled incessantly and jumped into the corn field, running away.
The old man arose instinctively to chase after her.