Short
He sat his cup of coffee on the kitchen table, and eased his own spare frame into a wooden chair. Old age had crept into his joints, making the trip from sitting to standing a longer one than he would like, and he was relieved to be sitting when it was through. The house was quiet now, the kitchen dim without the lights turned on. It had been a while since he had turned the lights on, but now that summer was fading into fall, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea. Bright as the idea was, he didn't have the energy to do it now. Who would have known that there would be a refractory period just for getting up or sitting down? Annie would have found that funny, called him clever. She had a way of smiling at him when he made her laugh, that pulled her nose down and twisted the corners of her eyes up. He sat for a minute in the dim, bringing her smiling face to his minds eye.
He reached for the creamer, his rough farmers fingers not quite up to the task of peeling the scrip of paper off of the top of the new carton. A quick jab with a pocketknife solved the problem, and the rest of the seal came off like bark being whittled from a branch. The pale cream created a roiling cloud of beige in the coffee, swirling like smoke floating near the ceiling of a bar, fading to a uniform shade as he began to stir the cup. He took his time in the process, the kitchen quiet except for the sound of his spoon in the cup and the tick of the cheap wooden wall clock. Someone had given it to them for their 25th anniversary. Annie would have known who gave it to them, had almost certainly written them a thank you card. He probably hadn't seen them since the funeral, and he couldn't care less.
The sound of wind through the mostly bare branches in the back yard was like a lullaby, and he found that he had paused with his head down, nodding off even as he was poised to pour the sugar. It had been a long day, and the east 20 still had fencework to be done after the last set of autumn storms. It had been easier when the boys had been here, but they had moved off years ago. He had been proud to see them go at the time, content to have the house to he and Annie again. Now, with the kitchen dim, and the chill creeping in, he felt that it would have been good to see one of them again. He stirred his cup slowly, feeling the force of the moving coffee against the back of his spoon, and wondered if he felt the same way as that spoon. Time seemed to be pushing against his back, wanting him to hurry along for nothing, focused on bending him like the birch. He set aside the spoon along with those thoughts. They wouldn't get the fence fixed.
He stood slowly with his cup in hand, and was glad that the pain didn't last as long on the way up as it did when he sat down. He pushed the chair in to the table and moved to the screen door, the dim shadows of the kitchen making him careful not to trip. He didn't want to wind up like one of the fools in those commercials, not 5 miles from the road and nowhere near a neighbor. He kept a hand on the wall, telling himself that it wasn't for support so much as guidance, and stood at the back screen door, sipping his coffee and looking out at the yard. There used to be a garden there, that Annie liked to plant tomatoes in, and the stakes were still there, unused for years. The branches of the oak tree made a sighing sound, and the sky looked to be producing another storm. It wouldn't be long, he thought over the rim of his cup, before the rains would be replaced by snow. Time to come in then, and wait out the winter. Except that there wouldn't be another spring, this time. Nor summer or fall, for that matter. He knew this like a duck knows the season, and knows when it's time to take wing for the south.
The wind started to pick up, and he listend for a minute to the song. Strange, how when Annie had been alive it was a chorus of gladness that they enjoyed together on the porch. Now, it was a reminder that he was living in a dark home, with no light left in it, and no warmth. The song was a sadder one now, and it seemd like it wasn't the song that changed to make it that way. He turned to close the door, keen on bringing a fire into the hearth. It might be his last fall, but he knew that he didn't want his end to come from the cold. The shadows of the house were just as empty as they ever had been, and he felt no comfort in the fact. It didn't make him any less tired, and it didn't make him any less alone.
He reached for the creamer, his rough farmers fingers not quite up to the task of peeling the scrip of paper off of the top of the new carton. A quick jab with a pocketknife solved the problem, and the rest of the seal came off like bark being whittled from a branch. The pale cream created a roiling cloud of beige in the coffee, swirling like smoke floating near the ceiling of a bar, fading to a uniform shade as he began to stir the cup. He took his time in the process, the kitchen quiet except for the sound of his spoon in the cup and the tick of the cheap wooden wall clock. Someone had given it to them for their 25th anniversary. Annie would have known who gave it to them, had almost certainly written them a thank you card. He probably hadn't seen them since the funeral, and he couldn't care less.
The sound of wind through the mostly bare branches in the back yard was like a lullaby, and he found that he had paused with his head down, nodding off even as he was poised to pour the sugar. It had been a long day, and the east 20 still had fencework to be done after the last set of autumn storms. It had been easier when the boys had been here, but they had moved off years ago. He had been proud to see them go at the time, content to have the house to he and Annie again. Now, with the kitchen dim, and the chill creeping in, he felt that it would have been good to see one of them again. He stirred his cup slowly, feeling the force of the moving coffee against the back of his spoon, and wondered if he felt the same way as that spoon. Time seemed to be pushing against his back, wanting him to hurry along for nothing, focused on bending him like the birch. He set aside the spoon along with those thoughts. They wouldn't get the fence fixed.
He stood slowly with his cup in hand, and was glad that the pain didn't last as long on the way up as it did when he sat down. He pushed the chair in to the table and moved to the screen door, the dim shadows of the kitchen making him careful not to trip. He didn't want to wind up like one of the fools in those commercials, not 5 miles from the road and nowhere near a neighbor. He kept a hand on the wall, telling himself that it wasn't for support so much as guidance, and stood at the back screen door, sipping his coffee and looking out at the yard. There used to be a garden there, that Annie liked to plant tomatoes in, and the stakes were still there, unused for years. The branches of the oak tree made a sighing sound, and the sky looked to be producing another storm. It wouldn't be long, he thought over the rim of his cup, before the rains would be replaced by snow. Time to come in then, and wait out the winter. Except that there wouldn't be another spring, this time. Nor summer or fall, for that matter. He knew this like a duck knows the season, and knows when it's time to take wing for the south.
The wind started to pick up, and he listend for a minute to the song. Strange, how when Annie had been alive it was a chorus of gladness that they enjoyed together on the porch. Now, it was a reminder that he was living in a dark home, with no light left in it, and no warmth. The song was a sadder one now, and it seemd like it wasn't the song that changed to make it that way. He turned to close the door, keen on bringing a fire into the hearth. It might be his last fall, but he knew that he didn't want his end to come from the cold. The shadows of the house were just as empty as they ever had been, and he felt no comfort in the fact. It didn't make him any less tired, and it didn't make him any less alone.