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Edited on Wed Feb-06-08 07:57 PM by TechBear_Seattle
I can see it as a short story, though. How about....
An elderly man. He has grown feeble and can't get around much because of arthritis and the oxygen tank he relies on. He used to be active, an avid hiker and gardener with a lively social life. Many of his friends have already left on the last great adventure, and those that remain are like him. He still lives in the small post-WW II box house where's lived for more than fifty years and raised three children; his stubborn sense of independence will not allow him to move into a nursing home. He keeps in touch with old friends by telephone and his neighbors -- a single mom and her two kids -- drop by every day, helps keep his yard tidy and take him grocery shopping when he needs. (He suspects his own children are paying her, but they never let on and he is too proud to ask.)
During WW-II, he was an electrical engineer of some note. He helped develop several key computer circuits and part of the design for radar; after the war, he worked several decades finding civilian uses for this technology. His name on several patents and some careful investing have given him enough retirement income to keep his independence. So to pass the time, he has built a radio transmitter in the workshop out back.
Now, the FCC frowns strongly on unlicensed radio stations, so he instead broadcasts into space. His high powered, highly focused transmissions -- using phased light rather than radio waves; he doesn't want to bring the Feds down on his head -- are aimed at Polaris, the North Star; unlike his friends, Polaris will continue to be there long after his dust has turned to dust. He finds that sense of permanence comforting.
The "shows," as he thinks of them them, are an ecclectic mix of music, social commentary and the personal thoughts of an old man whose once vast world has been reduced to a small home, a small workshop and a tired, worn-out body.
He ends one show with a big band number, then thanks his listeners for their polite attention. He says it doesn't matter whether or not anyone is listening; the thought that someone, somewhere, at some future time might hear him fills his heart with joy. He signs off, then goes in to the living room lays down on the couch for a nap. In his dreams, his late wife comes for a visit as she often does. As usual, she asks him to join her. This time, he accepts.
And half the galaxy weeps when they realize, centuries latter, that this was his last show.
Edited for grammer.
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