No Rooms without Walls

One

His hand sprawled along the bed. The sheet, cool to the touch. Inched forward and then back as he reached along the surface. Fine threads beneath his caressing touch. Smooth linen as ice to cool his palms from the warmth of sleep. The smell of wood smoke at the quilt wafted up as spice to his senses, allowing him to linger there for far too long in dreamy absolution.

He put his sweater around his arms to keep the cold away once he rose and he sat at the old chair and curled his hands in his lap and stared intent at the great beyond.

There was coldness in his gaze, a distinct direction to which he peered. Through the line of trees that surrounded the lake and past into the sunrise that smudged across the water. He dreamed these things when his eyes were closed and he nestled them close when he was awake.

The skin of his face lay scribed across his bones, each furrow a milestone etched by time. The hair had gone from the top of his head, receding like the innocence he once kept. Thin locks of white tenderly caressed his scalp and sloped against the wrinkles of his neck, wavering timeless to songs forgot.

The slow creak of the chair matched the sounds from his bones, gently knocking as he moved to and fro. With each breath came the next turn of the rockers and the chair tilted backward. As he exhaled, he leaned forward and the motion repeated. He grasped tight to the arms beneath the curls and ran his thumb along the inside of the wood, feeling the smooth wear of years. This was one of the few things he had left.

There was a time, not so long ago that blind faith kept him wanting, kept him straight and unfaltering. He thought the world would recognize him and gift him solace – he thought that the hard work would turn his life and gift him thanks. But that to was nothing more than a wish that never came. And these were simple dreams, constructs of life well worn.

I am slow in the flesh and these, my aching bones. And the muscles knot and the emptiness cowers in my shadow. For what am I but this single thought lingering?

His days melded and blended, rocking through a pattern of discontent, much like the chair which greeted his frame. One day moved into the next and so on until he found himself alone.

 Nothing can be done about that now.

A great, aching battle-cry of misery this life has become. And if he were to try and trace back through the memories, he would not be able to pinpoint the exact moment when it all came tearing apart. His history was a vision and he had to concentrate to make sure it was real.

There is a great hope and it is blinding. It leaves him with the impression that things will change, that life will take on a new, blustering form and give freely of itself and grant him validation. One day he hopes it will give him peace. He is afraid he will turn around and find himself lost and confused, unable to speak or move, unable to recognize the world around him. Not too far from the truth.  And that is when it ends. When he can no longer relate to his surroundings – that is the precise moment when he will acknowledge that he has done nothing and that he has been emptied of it and the fine lines that separate his fantasies are merely restrictions he has adapted to.

“I wish I would have known sooner,” he said, but his voice was lost and faint in remembrance.

As a boy, his father would take him fishing. The nights were cold and he wore a heavy jacket and cast his line into the dark, reflecting water. He let his hand course along the raw wood of the boat and down to the smooth interior of birch bark. The canoe was firm and only swayed slightly from his movements. He ran his fingers along the spruce roots that made up the stitching and again to the cool bark below. The water was as black as ink from some mysterious creature in the murk and gave him his reflection back so as not to reveal its secrets.

“Why is it made from bark?” the boy asked.

“It’s the traditional way the Native people crafted them,” his father replied.

“But why do you have it?”

“It was given to me in trade by a great man.”

It was years later that he heard the story, and the words stayed with him as carvings in stone. An old man had came to his father and asked, and his father gave without hesitation.

“I only need a little,” the man said.

“I will give you all that I can.”

“I only need enough to feed my family.”

“The canoe is worth much more than that.”

The old man gave a strong nod of his head. “You are a good man.”

“I’m only doing what is right.”

“And that is why you are a good man.”

He leaned back in the rocking chair and looked out to the autumn leaves and counted them as they drifted down in loops and curves.

He wondered where compassion had gone, where humanity had lost its grace, and if it would ever return.

 Every falling leaf was a moment to remember. Every arch and every spiral was its own eternity, and the old man refused to let them go. He held them there at the top of his mind and let them play as sparks from a shedding fire, unrestricted and joyful.

The orange fluttered, descended, loped in the air like the flashes from so many days ago, the day empathy died. Mingled with red and yellow, and autumn was complete. He could still hear the waning breath of fear in his bones and he gave distance to the night and hummed as his voice cracked in dream. There was no war to be afraid of now, only illusions of yesterday and sorrow for every turn.

His hand crested and turned and his palms were there to meet him. In the valley of his grasp, deep lines sunken by work and toil traced out and those days seemed distant and vain. Playful times - so long ago.

Two

He stared out the window into the bleak morning mist and considered the times. Both gone and come again were those moments, holding and real – so much so that he could almost reach out and touch their soft features. In the oak at the front of the property sat an unreasonable bird, cackling its voice like an old smoker, too foolish to fail.

He ran his fingers along the window sill and played with the idea of opening it and letting the morning in. His fingers were rough and dry, telling tales of where they touched the very face of God. The window was empty save for the view that escaped him at the moment. In corrupt, shaking movements, he stood and dusted off his trousers and looked one final time at the nuisance. With a small shake of his head, his lips gave the slightest curl and he turned and gazed toward the floor, unmoved.

Through time, he had lost most of which he had acquired. The trophies and trinkets of a life led hard and noble were all but gone. There, in the corner, was his dresser filled with pants and undershirts, handkerchiefs and socks. Behind him, in the closet, were his dress shirts. Along with everything else, his suits hung untended and smelling of age, smelling of a saga fought and lost like all other things.

“Amen,” he said and pushed himself along on a knotted cane made from a fallen limb of the same tree that stood outside his room.

His thoughts were abandoned and narrow. Only death can beat me now, he thought and buttoned the top of his sweater after adjusting it on his shoulders.

The house was empty, save for those few precious things. Only that which was needed remained. All of the antiques were gone. Like old friends, he had to bid them adeiu and sent them on their way. But the house remained - the home where he had raised a child to a tender age with a wife whom he had loved more than life. She was also gone. He shivered at the thought.

He took the long hallway that led from the back of his home. He opened the very next door and found his son’s room. It was a husk of memory, faded and forlorn, bidding him casual reproach as he entered. A small box lay in the center of the room with the pictures of his boy who died one fateful winter morning down at the lake. The boy had gone to fish with a smile and a rustic pole and never returned. That morning, the old man had lost part of his heart, it lay much like the box; dusty and alone, filled with memories that glanced off his mind from time to time. He picked up the box and put it under his arm and used his free hand to guide the cane that would let him walk to the shore.

Autumn leaves scurried in gentle gusts, tumbling ever so slightly before lying to rest the fine outline of the wind. Encouraged, the old man went farther, letting those rambling leaves crackle underfoot as he took to the trail that led to the lake. Each footfall sent them scurrying away, sent them over the trail and whipping behind in his wake. He hurried now while he still had the mind to do what must be done.

He placed the box in the water and let it float away. He watched for a long time before it finally became nothing more than a dot on the surface of reflection. There was no worry or waning guilt.

“What is done is done,” he said. “Amen.”

He made his way toward the old house. The cool bite of fall anchored over the remains of the garden his wife had planted in memory of their son. It was a fragile reminder of what once was. Brittle leaves crumbled to black, fertile earth, blending and becoming one. Brown, soiled petals nursed along the soil. Seeds gathered and swept along in promise of growing again someday. He stood there for a long time, watching in a way that seemed as if he were waiting for it to grow again, to bud life in this cradle of distant memory.

He felt the wind chill the beard on his face. He let it bite into the wrinkles and blow away through the grooves cut there in time. He let it falter and wane through the pass of discontent. The knocking in his heart had receded as the small box sailed out across the lake and an idea was struck. It was a distant thing, a mournful reminder. And it was away.

As he stared back down the trail and across the water at the tiny dot, he let out a gruff sigh and stretched the muscles in his back to make them work once more. He took to the porch and turned the knob and pushed the door inward with his shoulder.

“And winter draws near,” he said to the failing frame, and pulled the door closed.

With what he had sold, he paid off the mortgage and had nothing left but the contempt that remained from having nothing left. In his heart it was always night, always the moment before sleep would take him into unremembered dreams and absolution. The slow pattering in his chest was a simple thing, masked by the look of wisdom that ancient faces always seem to tell. There’s no such thing as wisdom, he thought. There are only fading sunsets and unresolved matters.

From the cupboard, he pulled a pot for boiling the soup that would become his dinner. He placed it on the burner and lit the inner stove with a match from the box he kept on the counter and placed the box into his pocket and patted it for safety. The wood crackled a hymn. Over the fire, he could hear the wind pick up outside and whistle against the windows, a mournful song like the one that he often hummed to himself – a lamenting hymn for heathen souls.

“The old wind knows of sorrow,” he said as he placed the can of soup on the counter and retrieved the opener from the drawer by the sink.

He twisted mindfully, letting the blade sink ever so slightly into the tin. With a few twists from aching joints, he removed the top and placed it in the trashcan. There was nothing to the simplicity of the motion, but when he paid it special attention, he could get lost forever in its design. No longer would he let the simple things fade off into the void of forgetfulness. No longer would he take them for granted.

“Every moment is a gift,” he said and poured the contents of the can into the pot and waited for the stove to become hot.

He stirred the soup, watching the vegetables bob in the broth, coming to the surface only to drop below the murky liquid again. There was darkness in the receding thought; a simple understanding of loss and gain. For all things were this way, they move and heap, they vanish and reappear. It made him wonder if this was true of all things. He thought about going away only to resurface. He wondered if he had it to do over again, whether he would do it in the same way. He believed he would, but with more attention.

When he was young and thought life would go on forever, he contemplated time with the slightest wave of his hand. It was dismissible, a fleeting whim that seemed so far away. But as he grew older and his breath became shorter and more refined, he thought of how quick the waters of time evaporate.

As an old man, he grasped every single second, caressed its meaning with an outstretched hand and nestled it close like the most fragile of things.

And as the soup became hot and boiled, he watched the steam rise in thin trails like the life he had led. So solemn was the wind. So caring was the fire. So quenching was the life eternal.

Three

He often considered the meaning of life and hoped that it would have come to him sooner. If he’d had the knowledge earlier, maybe things would not have become so bleak. As his savings narrowed and his pension wore down, he had been threatened with destitution. As the money went away, the thoughts arose from the ashes of what once was and made him reflect on that which was left. He took everything into account. He toiled over the slightest thought and played with eternity.

He had the old chair and he still had the workshop. He wondered if his hands would work well enough, but decided better of it and took his bowl of soup into the bedroom and sat on the old chair and looked out the window at autumn blanketing the dry, brittle trees. Soon, snow would be all around. It would cover up the dead garden and freeze the lake. It would take away the memories and leave whiteness in its wake. Nothing can stop winter, he decided, and sipped the broth by the spoonful as he gazed out into the mire.

He took to watching a squirrel scurrying through the trees, darting this way and that through the brush as if it were trying to decide where to go next. The creature’s mouth was full, and it finally made its way up the base of an ancient elm, spiraling along the bark and disappearing into a hole. A few minutes later, the animal poked its head out and sniffed the air, working its tiny paws into a ball in a way that looked as if it were deep in thought.

“So many winters come and gone,” the old man said as he shook his head and returned to his soup, slurping it up with a shaky spoon. “I remember when that tree was but a sprout. I remember the year that I thought it would die and I fed it and watered it incessantly. I remember bringing it back and here it stands, tall and forever. It fared better than the other I had to cut down. It will be here longer than me.”

He sat the bowl on the floor, scooted it away a few inches and began to rock in the old chair. In his youth, he had built it with the sweat of his brow and tools which he worked by hand. “How many years now?” he asked aloud and gave his head a little shake. “Far too many I assume.”

The wood was worn to a polish, revealing bright red curls of rings within the surface. The hand rests were also worn to such sheen that glass would envy the reflection. At the headrest, oils of time had mingled and stained the chair a deep crimson. The colors matched the old man’s skin when winter would come, biting at him in the evenings as he retrieved wood for the fire outside beneath the eave.

He thought about the workshop again. He thought of the fine dust that would cover his arms and the smell of lacquer he would mix by hand. The soft light that played at the ceiling from warm lanterns - too sorry and old to give in and burn out – it would light the table where he would work for hours at a time, only breaking when his empty stomach could take no more.

With cane in hand, he left the house and pulled the door tight behind him. The wind had picked up again and swooned. A deep chill came off of the lake and rustled the trees and the brush and the tiny dead garden in front. Frigid pangs. He pulled his sweater tighter around him and patted his shoulders to keep the blood flowing. With great care, he unlatched the lock on the shop and reminisced over yesteryear.

The smell of wood had become faint, almost an illusion from some daydream he had had once upon a time. But the building was firm and still kept out the wind. He opened the stove and threw in a handful of waded paper and stacked the wood and lit the bundle with the matches from his pocket. A dim glow came up from between the logs and quickly became a flame. It licked up along the surface, splintering as the fire grew. He closed the stove door and opened the flue, releasing the smoke that would scent the forest beyond.

It is good to be in here again, he thought, and I am lucky to still have it.

In the rafters, high above the dust and shavings, sat the old canoe. The bark had peeled from the sides and some of the spruce roots had snapped in decay. He looked on and thought about it for a long moment.

So many years ago the boy had helped him glue the bark and restore it to tread water again. And he showed him how to fish like his father before him.

He opened the aged tackle box and saw the lure that had been handed down from son to son. And so it would continue with his.

The wood lure was polished and gleaming. The hooks caught the light and sparked a glow. He had always been afraid to refinish it for fear it would lose its luck. His father’s father – as old as three lives, the third not yet spent.

He handed it to the boy. “This will be yours when you’re old enough. I think that time is near.”

The boy took it and cradled it in his hands. He could not find fitting words.

“It was made by your grandfather and I cannot tell you how many fish it has hooked.”

“Why isn’t it painted?”

“The luck is in the wood,” he said. “It’s what it is, not the coat it wears.”

“You’re giving it to me?”

He laughed and shook his head. “It has never really been owned. It belongs to your son and his son and so on. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” the boy replied.

“It’s by never truly owning it that it gets its magic. When something isn’t owned, it has its own life and it can do with it what it will. So is the way of many things.”

He lit the lanterns and smelled the kerosene and adjusted the wick. As the fire crackled and the stove began to warm the shop, the old man sifted through the boards and lumber and fittings and solvents. He made a mental note of everything that was left and placed what he thought he would need onto the workbench. He chose the straightest boards he could find from the pile of oak he had cut a few summers ago from the large tree that threatened to die and topple over on the house during the next big wind. He had cut the tree to length and sent it to the mill down the road and had it cut and planed into proper sizes.

“Now is as good a time as any,” he said, rummaging through the pile.

He brought several pieces to the other bench situated in the center of the room and laid them out. He stared at the wood for a long time, bargaining with the ideas that were floating around in his head.

When he was a boy, he had heard a tale of a wood sprite that guided craftsmen in their work, gave them ideas and helped them make the plans for whatever it was that they set their minds to. He smiled and a line came up from his mouth and traced its way along his cheek and descended down over his chin. It was a wry smile, fitting of a man who knew too much, fitting of a man who had seen a great deal. He looked to the old canoe and said a silent prayer and began to sketch out a design on a sheet of paper.

He licked the tip of his pencil and guided it with a straightedge, marking the dimensions of every line as he went. He stayed like this for hours, drawing what his imagination exposed, caressing the paper and tilting it this way and that to fit the musings of his mind.

Only once did he glance up from the table. He saw the sun falter and wane and finally sink below the stark white outline of the lake and through the pines that graced its shore. His eyes were heavy and he tried to blink away the weariness of the day and keep going but his bones protested and it was all he could do to set the pencil down and snuff out the fire and the lanterns before returning to the empty house.

Four

At night, the house moaned out long and proud much in the same way as the old man. They both were relics of time, both condemned to antiquity like the copper roof above a great and forgotten steeple, adorned in haste and left to weather in the sun and rain and cold and heat, beneath the stars which they yearned to tread. He felt this way so often that it had become commonplace, it was his daydream through thoughtfulness, his nightmare among sleepless nights.

In the center of his room, a simple bed sat tended, made every morning by the same gnarled hands that crafted its frame. Simple, sturdy posts bound to steel and spring, fastened by labor and hardship and untold hours. The lacquer had all but worn from its surface, pockmarked with nicks and dings from time and wear. The mattress was soft and took his frame with ease. The blankets were warm and offered shelter from the blinding dark of night.

The faintest squeak sounded as the old man lay down, still dirty from the evenings work. He used up what strength he had removing his sweater and placing it on the hook inside the room. He toiled over the thought of removing his clothes, but could not find reason.

“There is no one to protest the smell of wood and smoke,” he said to himself and fell into a gentle sleep.

In the morning he arose to the pangs of an empty stomach. The wrenching movements made him rise too quickly and he faltered on his feet and steadied himself once more. He pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders and removed the sweater from the hook beside the door, taking his cane in hand to knock upon the floorboards with careful steps. The house was cold and bitter as the wind from outside picked up and knocked against the siding and windows. He shuffled along the hallway and into the living room, past the area rug, too worn to sell, and glanced out the front window. He saw the frost that peppered the lawn like the residue of whitewash left by careless hands. The simple sight made his joints ache and seize and he held tightly to his shoulder as he worked out the kink.

He shook his head and wandered back through the house to the kitchen, paying heed to the emptiness of his belly and the feeling of lightness in his head. From the icebox, he took out eggs and a patty for his breakfast. He checked the lower door and found the brick of ice almost gone and wondered if it would last until winter.

He placed a log in the stove and waited for the fire to hold and placed the coffee pot on the burner to boil. After placing in a couple of spoonfuls of grounds, he closed the lid and waited for the glass sight at the top to show the perking brew. He placed a pan on one of the other burners and set himself to frying an egg and the sausage patty. The smell was immediate and alluring, quaint under the smoke from the wood and it made his mouth water for the first time in quite a while.

“The work must have done me good,” he said and flipped the patty.

He placed the food on a chipped plate and sat it on the table in the kitchen. He looked through the cupboard for his mug and glanced at the one his wife had used. He stared at it for a long time, lost in memory and quickly turned his head when he realized he had been looking for too long.

He always made too much coffee and that morning was no different. He filled his cup and placed the rest of the pot on the stove to cool. Some recessive thought gnawed at him, a subconscious thing drowned in hope kept him filling the pot even after he had what he needed. A far away dream urged him to do what he had always done and make enough for his wife and himself. Some far off fantasy said that she would be back; she would sit at the table and sip at the roast while he made breakfast. The image played with him and if he stared long enough, he could see her outline at the table. If he stared longer still, he could make out the faint shimmer of her eyes as she looked on.

When the food was gone, he washed the plate and mug, dried them and placed them back into the cupboard. He did the same with the coffee pot, emptying the contents into the sink and scrubbed away the dark ring around the rim. He looked back at the chair where his wife would sit and shook his head. He cleared his throat with a tight rumble of his chest and took his cane in hand and left the house.

The wind had died down and he took to the flower garden and remembered the way it used to be. He stood there longer than he should have before getting up the urge to go to the lake. The water was still and the air was cool and crisp. Faint odors played at his nose, subtle like the lake, robust like the earth. Even now, he could see the hole in the ice so many years ago and the swatch of fabric floating at the surface. Even now, he could imagine his son; he could see his laughing face and the pole thrown over his shoulder and the dark blue jacket they had bought him for winter. He could hear the boy’s voice in his ears, a happy song on his lips, humming as he stepped in tune.

Lovely words played at the old man’s lips when he remembered. Words meant for condolence and disdain; words better off said to the gentle breeze in a hushed whisper under moonlit skies. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t let the regret take him again. If he had but a moment to speak his mind, the drifting memories would subside, they would understand and leave him be. They would allow him rest.

As the wind sprouted along the trees, it brought the tiniest waves lapping to the shore. They nursed at the bank where the man stood, gazing off into nowhere. The sounds filled him with urgency and a tear came to his eye and filled the crevices left on his cheek by time. He breathed deeply and wiped away the hurt, letting it glance off the sleeve of his sweater. He gave his head a small shake and took again to the trail that led to the house. He stopped again by the garden and nodded and wiped at his face. He let out a sigh and walked to his workshop.

Several hours later, the old man snuffed out the fire and locked the door to the shop with a small pin that kept the clasp secure. He became weak and steadied himself on the frame of the door, gifting himself a moment to rest. His breath was slow and he could see light at the corner of his eyes.

Five

What once was came back to him. He saw his wife in bed, dressed in a nightgown. Her face was white and still, her eyes fluttered for a time and opened when he came to her side. She whispered something small into his ear when he neared and he began to sob.

She had come home from the hospital to die. The doctors and nurses came and went like the seasons, giving the old man little to hold on to. Their voices were always caring and masked, but their eyes told stories he would have been better off not to have heard.

She was lucid in her dreams, only coming out for brief moments to stutter out the same whisper as before. And every time she made those sounds, he would begin to cry. What else was left? He would ask himself. Where will I go? But there was never an answer, only the same whisper in his ear, soft as a loving touch.

He sat by her bed and held her hand as she drifted off, sometimes moaning in small rasps, sometimes silent like denial. When her eyes finally sunk and looked withdrawn, she whispered again, but she pleaded with him this time.

“I don’t know how,” he replied through tightened lips. “I just…”

“You must,” she coughed.

“But I don’t know if I can.”

“Promise me,” she wheezed, “promise.”

“I will,” he finally agreed.

After another long day in the shop, the old man cleaned his hands and undressed, placing his clothes in the hamper by the bathroom door. His face was sunken and tired and his back ached. The lines on his face gathered at the corners of his mouth as he tried to smile at his reflection, but only quiet disregard allowed itself to be seen on his sunken cheeks. He turned on the faucet and heard the generator kick over and the pump whined as the water came. And he wondered how much fuel was left. He wondered if it would take him through the winter. He heard the boiler cry and felt the water warm before plugging the tub and letting it fill.

Slowly, he checked the water, letting only his foot sink into the deep warmth. He lowered himself down by the inch and finally relaxed and lay back, allowing the tub to swallow him whole. He hadn’t bothered lighting the lantern, only allowing the falling sun to illuminate the bathroom in a subtle glow through the hazy window like the desire in his faltering heart.

He breathed deeply, letting the steam fill his lungs, allowing the wet warmth to penetrate his tired limbs. Carefully, he washed as the fragrance of the soap wafted up into the room and played at the mist that gathered here and there in the faint light. He stayed that way until the water began to cool, ending his restful repose.

He dried himself and dressed for sleep. His bed greeted him with quiet resolve as he sunk into the down, letting the feathers part for his weary frame and embrace him like a long lost friend. The pillow took his head and the blanket draped his tired skin. If he stayed still, he could almost hear the gentle breath of his wife. He imagined better days as he drifted off to sleep, wondering if another day would dawn upon his ancient brow.

The morning ushered in a white blanket of snow that licked at the window sills and tapped lightly against the glass. The old man turned his head and peered out into the world beyond, slick with frost. His body protested as he arose, creaking out faint and inaudible groans. He sat at the edge of the bed and let his feet touch the soft rug below. The house protested too as it expanded with the cold morning, popping and clicking as old homes often do.

From the window, the old man could see the snow gather at the edge of the lake, spotting the surface along the shore where it had frozen overnight. The trees too were blanketed in the fresh fall, looking more like puffs of cotton than the coming of winter. He smiled to himself for a moment and took in the scene. He was reminded of holiday cards sent from distant relatives and the season which had always stood for hope.

He brushed off the old chair with the palm of his hand and sat down to admire the morning. Graceful flakes of snow fluttered in the air, whipped around in spirals of luminescent white by the wind. It was as if they were dancing for him, showing that magic still existed, performing a ballet of dream and whimsy as the clouds opened and graced the world with delight.

As a child, he would play for hours in the snow with the sled his father had made for him. He would polish the rails until they were sharp and take to the hill outside his home and speed down past the trees and pretended he could fly. The wind was always at his back in those days, pushing him along and giving him the sense of forever.

He would play until his cheeks were red and his hands were numb. Only then would he come into the house to warm up with a cup of hot chocolate and wait for his clothes to dry by the fire. Once he was warm, he would go back out and do it all over again - for that was the way with children who live forever.

What he saw outside made him feel that way again. He had the dream in his hand and the excitement in his heart. He threw on some clothes and pulled his winter jacket out from the closet. He tossed on his boots and tied them tight. With his cane in gloved hand, the old man went out into the snow and the frost and the expectancy of fancy. He let his feet drag through the drifts and wadded up a ball in his gloves. He reared back and threw it into the air to see how high it would go. With a bending arch, the snowball ascended into the sky and vanished. He never saw it come down and imagined it flying through the clouds like a star too foolish to die away.

Along the undisturbed road, the old man walked and hummed a simple song that carried in the wind. He’d heard the song some time ago and wished he remember the voice. Ice had formed on the branches of the trees that lined the road, giving them a majestic gait. For a moment, he imagined the fairy tales and daydreams of youth. For a moment, he was young again. For a moment, all was right with the world and he couldn’t hear the cries.

He crossed the road and gazed through the trees and looked upon the outer edge of the lake in front of his home. There, partially covered by snow, he saw the tiny box he had set free to the water. It was open and the pictures were gone. He looked through the drifts and along the shoreline, but couldn’t find the pictures of his son. Awestruck, he wondered what had happened to them. With a smile on his face, he imagined them sailing off in the wind, becoming forever like the ball of snow he had thrown earlier. He saw them grace the sky, fluttering along the clouds and drifting into space. He imagined the eyes of God reflecting those images. He imagined that He was smiling too.

With a tap of his cane, he took to walking again. Even with the gray clouds overhead, he could see the sun shone through, he could feel the warmth tingle on his face, he could feel eternity again. In a flash, he saw his project back at the shop and he knew what it needed. The image was emblazoned on his mind. Every detail erupted in color too bright for mortal eyes. Every nuance, captured for only him to see.

“There is magic,” he said to himself and turned, walking back to his home. “There is magic and it has found pity on an old man.”

He held his cane at his side as he quickened his pace. A new light graced the world and he smiled and began to hum again. The song was new, but told of time forgot. It was light and airy like the sky, it was bright and radiant like the sun; it was as innocent and fresh as a childhood secret told in giggling whispers to the trees that spoke of hushed things.

An old car at the side of the road on his way home - the lingering face inside, white like the world. Gleaming teeth and its skull cocked to the side. The old man looked away. Bones curled over the steering wheel. Disheveled rags about its ribs and still it smiled.

He lit a fire in the stove and turned to the workbench and began to plane the wood. He notched the surface with scrolls and delicate features. He smoothed the boards and bound the pieces together with glue and dowels. He toiled away for hours until his stomach rumbled a protest he couldn’t ignore. As he set the flue on the stove to cool the fire to a dull ember while he ate, he heard something soft and purring, a sound as faint as the whispering wind. He looked about, trying to decide where the little sound was coming from. He gazed at his workbench and to the tools that were organized on small hooks on the wall. He looked past the cabinet of solvents and glues and finally to the floor, but could not pinpoint the noise.

As he was about to leave, he heard the sound again, softly vibrating from above.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said as he looked into the rafters past the canoe.

There, balancing along a beam that extended across the roof was a kitten. It was amongst boxes of memories and decorations for the seasons. Its fur was as black as ink and its eyes shone bright blue. The little cat stared down at the old man as if it were questioning him and let out a tiny call through gleaming teeth. It rubbed itself against a support joist and purred as it gracefully walked to the end of the beam.

“How did you get in here?” the old man questioned with a laugh.

The cat meowed in response.

“I’ll bet you’re hungry,” he said. “Just look at you, all skin and bones. Would you like some milk? I’ll bet I have a little left.”

The kitten climbed down along a set of shelves, sidestepping cans of oil and a box of rags. Finally, the cat took to a counter positioned along the wall and nudged the man’s hand. The kitten scaled the old man’s arm and sat itself upon his shoulder, purring out a content hymn as it stroked his face.

“Friendly little thing,” the man stated. “Let’s go into the house and see what we can find.”

From the cupboard, the man retrieved a box of milk he had found unspoiled at the grocer and opened the top and poured some into a bowl. The kitten lapped at it greedily, staining its whiskers white from the effort. After it finished, the man took up the bowl and washed it in the sink, listening for the hum of the generator and pump outside while the kitten jumped up into his wife’s chair and watched him contently.

When the old man was finished and had put the bowl back into the cupboard, the kitten spoke in soft vibrations and hopped down from the chair to complete a set of figure eights around the man’s legs.

He leaned down, careful of his back, and picked up the animal. It purred in response and slowly climbed his arm again to sit on his shoulder. They were this way for some time, acknowledging, curious, and accepting. Neither wanted any more of the other than a moment, a solitary respite from the churning blanket of time. They merely wanted someone to call their own.

And it was in this way that the old man found who he was. On the inside, there was this taunting voice that bellowed like the wind. It called to him and told him of countless days, of weathering shores and hope for a future yet untold. This complicated matters, but instilled a type of dreamy response from him. It bid him a fair future of pondering and building and basking in the light of wisdom. It nursed at him as the kitten curled up on his shoulder and nudged his face and purred dreamily and fell off to sleep.

He watched his step as he went to his room. He took it all in; the modest furnishings, the knick knacks atop the sturdy, pine dresser – the quaint remnants that remained from a lifetime of work. For the first time, he was happy with it. He did not need expensive things for that was not who he truly was. He did not have need of such things to tell him who he was. Material things were constructs for passing time when time is all you have. And this was not his way. He was not inclined to wasting time.

Six

The kitten slept by his head during the night, warming his face and moving slightly when he stirred. Its velvety coat reminded him of winter mornings, mornings much like the one he has been offered again.

When he was younger, not old enough to appreciate life, he took advantage of every moment with daydream and whimsy, let it slip away like water through his fingers. He could sit under a tree and look up through the branches and beyond the leaves at the moving sky and see so many different shapes in the clouds. He was unsure as to what those images meant. He couldn’t put his finger on the point of it, but he knew the answer was out there, just beyond his grasp.

As a young man, he would settle in the shade, kick out his feet and cross them at the ankles and reserve himself to a nap. Tomorrow always held something new and better, something he could grasp more firmly, something he could look forward to. Today was nothing more than a nuisance, a glitch in reality only kept for persistent dreams and longing for times to come.

So much wasted time, he thought, spent idle in the waking arms of maybe’s and will do’s. If only now I could have a few of those moments back, I would surely make better of my time.

In the spring of his twenty-third year, he married Isabelle. He took her as his bride and promised her so many tomorrows. She was the essence of beauty in the white dress made of lace and delicate fabric. He held her hand and brought it up to his face and kissed her there, letting her hand float in his fingertips like something that would break if his grasp was too firm. He gently slid the ring on her finger and looked into her eyes. They promised tomorrow, they urged him to consider forever.

He looked to the kitten and he considered the darkness that lay in wait, what it would be like when he could no longer open his eyes, when sleep would take him forever.

“I’m afraid of dying,” he said.

The kitten looked up and continued to lick its paws.

“I mean, terrified,” he said. “I’m frightened that when I pass away there won’t be anything there. No family, no friends, no nothing.” He took a deep breath and rested his hands on the kitchen table. There came a knocking in his heart, a shuddering feeling, deep and foreboding. “What if there’s nothing waiting for me on the other side but vast emptiness? And what if I’m aware of this nothingness, unable to think of anything else but the blackness that is so black that it is void of all other things? What if that blackness is without form, without visible outline? What if it is so dark that I can’t even call it death?”

The kitten tilted its head to the side and said nothing.

He lowered his head and let out a sigh, deep and resounding. The knocking in his heart turned faint and the restlessness subsided. Still, under this all, his mind churned. He was a man too long in life, a husk of brilliant yesterdays.

He left the kitten in the kitchen and retrieved his coat. He tossed his scarf around his neck, the very same one his wife had knitted so many years ago, and took to the front door. The cold was bitter. It bit at his face and blew past the wrinkles, etching deeper those lines of time. He squinted through the light, through a simmering sun smeared by the darkness of clouds.

Snow crunched beneath his feet, cracking slightly as he pressed down and began to make his way out into the yard. The brown flowers were covered in a thin blanket of white tuft and the border was nothing more than a narrow mound to express the something that was once there to guide the garden when it was alive.

Even now, he could see her hands working the soil and blending the mulch. He saw the tiny seeds disappear in the black earth and the smile on her face when it was done. A great divide quaked in his chest and he knelt down to bless the memory. He lowered his head as if in prayer and smoothed out the tears from his face.

A cold wind bit at him again and nearly knocked him from his feet. It came from the lake, a swooning mistress intent on reminding him of his transgressions. His past was as faint as his future; brief glimpses of time knitted into the fabric of a faltering void. But the wind, he understood. The wind told tales yet to be uncovered, tales meant for someone at the verge of failing. It revealed mysteries and secrets. The wind knew all and was not ashamed to murmur of hidden things.

The snow crunched beneath his feet, broken bits of nature’s glass, crushing and popping out in gentle forgiveness. The sound was reminiscent of his spine and the brittle bones connected there. The sound was his body’s reminder of a life well worn. And the crackling snow told him the time was near.

In his shop, he lit the lamp above the bench and stoked the fire. He laid his hand upon the coarse sandpaper and let it linger at his fingertips. The texture was not unlike his face and the beard that clung there. He turned it over and placed it on the wood and worked diligently along the grain.

The swish of the paper against the wood made him think of how quiet the world was. In his youth, he had always welcomed the stillness, always yearned for the calm, but now that that was all there was he wished for noise. Any sound would do; anything to break the monotony of silence.

“How many times did I tell the boy to quiet down?” he asked himself. “How many times did I wish for this very thing? And now that there is nothing left to hear, that is all I yearn for. My world is incomplete.”

He looked out the small window of his workshop as the frost gathered about the edges of the glass and glared into the whiteness beyond. A blanket covered the trees, and their branches sagged low. Upon the lake, a velvety sheet of ice sprawled out toward a pool of black water at its center. Soon, the lake would freeze over completely and the memory will be lost like all the others that have come before it. He savored the moment and wondered how long it would be before the picture faded in his mind.

“Careful of the ice,” he said. There are warm springs that feed the lake and melt the ice on top.”

“I will,” the boy said as he smiled and tossed his jacket over his arms.

“Make sure to stay clear of the dark spots.”

He laughed. “I will.” He shook his head and turned to the door.

Holding up a piece of the project to the window, he let the light gleam upon its surface and smiled to himself. He took the lacquer from the shelf and removed the top. The thick, yellow liquid inside called of years gone by. Its age apparent in the lining of film that covered the top. He placed a brush into the can and broke the film. He stirred the mixture and began to spread it out along the wood in slow swipes.

“Soon, you’ll be finished,” he said and hung the piece to dry.

He warmed his hands above the stove, rubbing them together in quick strokes until he could feel the tips of his fingers once again. He placed another log on the fire to keep the shop warm until the lacquer dried and set the flue at the chimney so it wouldn’t burn too quickly.

Cocking the collar of his coat up over his ears, he glanced back at the project and gave a little nod. Silently, he admired his work and took to the door as the wind gathered there and bit at him once he opened it. He could feel the needles prick his hands and he quickly shoved them in the pockets of his coat as the door swung shut behind him.

Seven

The kitten meowed upon his return and he patted the animal on the head. It curled its body around his legs and looked up at the old man in reverence. There was a look in the animal’s eyes as if it had spotted something just above him, something unspoken and strange. But with a curl of its tail, the kitten returned to rubbing its face against the old man’s leg once more.

“We’re alone here, you and I,” he said. “And maybe it’s better this way.”

His coat swooshed as it rubbed against the raw wood of the entryway next to the door. He sat upon a stool and removed his boots, unlacing them with care and taking his time as if it were of no consequence at all. The cat scurried off and trailed along the hallway toward the old man’s bedroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he laughed.

He paid heed to the creak in his back as he stood and followed the kitten. He turned the corner to his room and watched as the kitten pawed at a box on the floor.

“How’d you get that down?” he asked.

The kitten nudged the box and the top fell to the floor.

The old man leaned down to retrieve the box and saw a picture of his wife on the top of all the others and the memories came. There was pain and loss in those memories. There was hope of seeing her again, hope that was as fleeting as the wind that licked at the windows outside.

“With the way the world is now, there isn’t much to hope for,” she said. “But you can’t give in to loss. You must keep hope - store it away where no one can touch it. And when you can’t seem to muster up that feeling again, I will be waiting on the other side. I will be waiting for you to come. I will be there and you will know me. And then we can be together again.”

“I can’t imagine living in this world without you,” he replied.

“You still have much to live for. There are things you must learn before you are ready to be with me again.” She touched his face. “When you are ready, you will come.”

Her body trembled and waned. Her hand rose from the bed and grasped at something far off and then there was nothing but the pillow on the floor and the old man’s trembling hand. A deep silence penetrated the room - a silence so deep and foreboding that it sang of purgatory. It hummed out in a pitch so low that only bones know of its timbre.

There were no more doctors, no one to help her anymore. There were no more empty promises or magic elixirs to bring her back as she was. He watched as she turned white and her features sank to the bones that once stood stoic upon her face. No angels sang when she passed. No harps could be heard above the gentle rasp of her last breath. No light shone through to guide the way to the hereafter. And there were no tears to quench the thirst of a dying soul.

He placed the lid back upon the box and lifted it from the floor. Again, like so many years before, he could feel the tightness in his eyes and the restriction in his chest. The growing pressure at the back of his mouth caused him to clench his teeth. And then he cried.

The sorrow let loose upon his frail body and he wept as he had never wept before. He felt life as a prison, a punishment for whatever it was that he had done to deserve such grief. He wished away every single breath and pulled at the skin that kept him alive.    

And still, his heart beat strong within his chest, refusing to give in to his sorrow. It beat as a drum, pounding out the rhythm of war and injustice. It rattled his bones and refused to subside. It knocked out the palpitations of his grief and laughed at his pain.

“Is this what the rest of my life will be?” he asked. “Will I be tormented in this even though I find nothing to live for? Am I meant to suffer so? Must I linger alone?”

As was always the case, silence returned his answer. But then the house settled and creaked from the cold outside. Even the windows shivered from the bitter chill. And he knew this was agony. It was a sentence from which there was no reprieve.

His neck clenched, the tendons tightened, and his head swam with indifference to decay.

“I am not afraid of you anymore!” he said, shaking his fists. “I’m not afraid of emptiness and void. And I’m sure as hell not afraid to live!” He turned and looked about the room, half expecting to see his nemesis. “I taunt you, Death. I taunt you and spit at you and your indifference.”

His face had turned a tint of rose and he sobbed. He staggered to the bed and lowered himself down. Gently, he leaned back and took a deep breath. He let his body rest. He sank into the down and closed his eyes. He hoped that it would be forever.

Eight

As the sun narrowed through the window, a deep cold bit at the old man. His body ached as always and the beard on his face did little to keep the chill at bay. The kitten was curled up under the blanket next to him and he realized he had forgotten to stoke the fire before he went to bed.

“Cold, always so cold,” he said.

From this he wondered if the seasons would change. With all that had happened in the world, he wondered if spring would come. If a man falls from the cold, does the sun shine upon his eyes in death? He played with the thought. He knew of dying. He knew what it meant.

“Sooner than later,” he said with a sigh.

He could see his breath in the air and he watched as it lifted slowly toward the ceiling. Thin wisps curled and dissipated into nothingness as he rose and placed his bare feet onto the rug beneath his bed. He clenched his fists to relieve the stiffness and moved slowly, keeping his back bent as he hobbled into the kitchen. He placed a log into the embers and let it crackle and build into the tiniest flame. The lick of fire bent, curled, and lifted, growing larger in the stove. Soot rose to the chimney and matched his breath, unfurling in wisps of gray and black. He breathed and it was the same, unlocking deep lines of tormented dreams and demanding winds.

There was wonderment in his gaze that furrowed the wrinkles on his face, deepening them as earth worn away by rivers that have crested their banks. The heat reminded him of far off days, of times better spent and he exhaled again and let the wisp of breath filter away like those memories. He tried to gauge the distance of time, but the dates would not come. There were no particular hours with which to grasp and encourage his memories. No particular point when he could remember things anew.

He looked to the icebox and saw that it was almost bare. He frowned and closed the latch and looked for the kitten to nudge his leg. As if called by his thoughts, the animal appeared and made a loop between his legs.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smile, “I still have something for you.

From the cupboard, he pulled out a can of tuna and wiped away the dust that had gathered on top and set the opener to the lid. With a few twists, he opened the can and placed the lid in the trash.

The kitten gave a throaty response as the old man sat the can on the floor and quickly began to gobble the tuna in laps of contentment.

He watched the kitten and felt his body calm. A far away regret washed away from his spirit. What he had done tempted tears, but held no concern. There had not been any other way. He had done it for her soul, because she asked, and there was nothing more to the pain in his heart but the thumping and knocking as was always.

A thought came to him and he spoke to the kitten, “You’ll be fine here by yourself today.” He wiped at the beard at the base of his chin. “I need to go into town. The walk will do me good.”

He pulled on his winter boots and tucked the cuff of his pants under the tongue and tightened the laces. He took his jacket from the closet and threw a scarf around his neck. He slipped on his gloves and took his cane from beside the door. He stopped short. Silence spoke in an overwhelming timbre. The quiet made him consider his wife and her passing and the way she had gone and the tears that flowed freely from his eyes on that night so long ago. He chewed at the side of his lip and closed his eyes and wondered what had once been.

The air outside was still. The brittle, bare branches of the trees stayed true under the pressing weight of ice. Under foot, the snow cracked in resentful snaps, broken by frigid contempt.

The old man tucked his hands into his pockets, careful not to snag the gloves on the seam, and took to the road, barren and unused - lifeless, as all things given to winter.

An old car lay rusted in the ditch and he went to it to see what may be inside. It has been so long since I’ve been this way, he thought, that even what was once new to me has rusted with time. The seats were torn and the cushion was exposed, lifting yellow in the gray light. Cracks lined the dashboard and it reminded him of his days. He thought of the deep creases and the dust of age that had graced the surface and he smiled it away.

He came to a cropping of trees, long since burnt and wondered if they would grow again. Homes lay like waste against the horizon. Some were boarded up while others were broken and run down, their windows gone as if they had fallen in on themselves, their frames old and wicked, their yards but patches of weed and neglect.

A snowbird chirped from the bushes beside the road and stared at the old man as he went. The old man nodded and the bird ruffled in return.

“It wasn’t I,” the old man said. “The others did this, themselves.”

The bird tilted its head.

The man gave another nod and watched the bird as it took to the air. Majestic wings and a steady beating as the wind lifted it away. Gone away is this like all other things, he thought. I too will lift elegant in the air one day and take to those winds and nothing will hold me back from tomorrow.

And it was quiet once more.

Graffiti covered the sign to the entrance of town. Obscure spellings and once bright colors came to his eye and he squinted to grasp their meaning. He looked to the ground and blinked away the message, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his old coat.

The old lumber mill where he used to come to have his boards sized and planed was now dilapidated and spent. Rust covered the steel siding and the stairs to the upper offices were no more. Weeds had grown up from the crevices and had gone brown in the wake of winter. Tufts of snow along their stems slept in cotton repose until the next wind would bite away their slumber.

On the next street over was the bank that took his money for the house he had paid for, three times over. The windows were boarded and snowdrifts covered the walkway. He remembered how he had struggled to sell off everything he owned just to pay a little so they would not evict him. And then it happened and the bank was no more.

“Futility,” he said.

Cars lined the street with broken windows and snow covered hoods. He imagined the people who once drove them and gave a slow shake of his head as he continued along. The grocery store was in the distance and the old man could feel the pain in his hip and needed to rest before he could gather what food he needed. His back also cramped and his neck was stiff. He pulled up his shoulders to relieve the pain and lowered his head so he would not have to look at the things time had left behind.

A young man exited the store with an armload of cans and a few cartons of cigarettes. His clothes were ragged and torn, hanging loosely on his slim frame. He stopped and looked to the old man as if not believing he was actually there. He squinted and stared. His eyes went wide and he grinned.

“They’re all gone, old man,” he said with an uncertain laugh. “Take what you want, they’re gone, every one.”

The old man nodded in return.

“Every other town has been looted,” he said.

“I imagine they have.”

“I haven’t seen this much food in months.”

Again, the old man nodded. “From where have you come?”

“The east,” he said and placed his find on a bench outside the store.

“I reckon it’s bad everywhere,” he said, looking to his feet. “You’ve had to kill.”

“I’ve only done what was necessary. I’ve seen a great many things laid out along the land. And in this life I chose to do what was right, what was fitting.”

“I’ve seen more than you,” the old man replied. “And sometimes what is right is not always what is needed.”

“That may be very well true,” the young man confessed. “I give when I’m asked. Even in times as these, I do what I can.”

“I never questioned you.”

“I’ve even given when I’ve known they were the better of me. It’s a curse of mine.”

“You were raised right,” the old man said.

“How is that?” he asked.

“Your parents instilled great things in you,” the old man said, tapping his head.

“Oh, I almost forgot about them.” The man looked to his feet and returned his gaze to the old man. “Do you suppose they’re still alive?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You know, I looked at some before this went the way it did and I thought to myself that we couldn’t keep on. Too many of the youth didn’t know up from down. They tried themselves on the latest trends and expected so much more out of life. Maybe that’s why most of them are gone.”

“Maybe,” the old man agreed.

“How old are you?”

The old man laughed. “Too old.”

“You saw this coming, didn’t you?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I saw the end in so many different ways it was a jumble in my head. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. What happened has happened.”

“I can’t believe there aren’t any answers.”

“There never were.”

“How do you mean?”

“How many great questions ever get answered?”

The young man shook his head.

“See? There are so many you can’t even name one. Truth is relative and it always has been. There is no today. There is no tomorrow. You know why?”

Again, he shook his head.

“Humanity constructed time. We looked at the sun and the stars and saw they went around at certain points and changed at others and we gave it a name, a damnable name. And all we did was give date to the passing of years and constructed our own deaths in the turning of hands.”

The young man thought on this and looked to the old man with sadness in his eyes. “To answer your earlier question, yes, I’ve had to kill, but only to survive, myself. I wouldn’t take another life unless there was no other way.”

“I thought so,” he replied. “No one lives in this without killing, unless they are old and don’t pose a threat.” He gifted the young man a wink.

“Do you oppose the war?”

“I don’t support it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I just can’t believe how many have died.” He shook his head and sat on the bench. “I’ve seen awful things, old man. Things you can’t imagine.”

“I can imagine them. I have seen war and death and I know its name.”

The man let out a small sigh. “I suppose you have. But did it all have to lead to this?”

“Sometimes fighting is the only thing that people can come up with. It’s instant and takes no time at all over diplomacy.”

“What do you see for our future?”

“For your future, I see pain and toil and maybe redemption. For my own, I see peace and tranquility and the end of tormenting dreams.”

“Are you to die?”

“Yes, very soon.”

“It is good to have known you even if it was for a short time,” he said, extending his hand.

The old man took his hand and gripped it firm and let it go as quickly as he accepted it.

“Maybe we’ve known each other all along.”

The young man took his things and crossed the street and looked back as the old man entered the store - a faint glimpse of yesterday as he took to a walkway in between two buildings and the old man was no more.

The old man nodded and watched the young man as he scampered away, leaving a trail where his rag covered feet dragged in the snow.

He looked back as if in a dream, anxious with nerves, wary of the old man who looked his way. He pulled his findings closer and vanished between the buildings like clouds over distant shores.

He entered the grocery store and looked back over his shoulder to make sure the young man was well on his way. He blinked and the apparition of a man was gone. He blinked again and all that was left was cold.

Boxes littered the aisles, scattered in haste and panic, thrown this way and that like confetti. He took a basket from beside the door and wiped away the dust and checked the handles to make sure they still held firm.

Mold covered the bread and their packages were bloated near bursting. The old man scanned the shelves and wandered farther along the aisle until he found what he was looking for. He placed several cans of cat food in the basket and a few boxes of sealed milk and slid along through the waste on the floor. He picked up cans of beans and fruit, bags of rice and flour. The smell of rotten meat made him turn and he wished he had savored the patties a little more. Some things were gone forever.

He did not have much, but what he had he left at the counter next to the register and waded through the broken glass on his way out.

He stretched his back before taking to the street, snow covered and forlorn, and finally to the gravel road that would take him home. He glanced at the restaurant where he had taken his wife when she was well and reminisced over those days gone by. Now, only corpses took the seats at the booths on either side and slumped over the counter on stools. Clothes filled with bones. Counters laced in age. He was glad the glass sealed them in.

Their faces were dried smears and their bellies were bloated near bursting. Small canisters lined the floors and the shadows crept up from the surrounding walls. Graven images, all.

He shook away the sight and hobbled along, keeping the basket from swaying at his side. He would bring it back empty when he returned.

He wondered if the farm by his home had any pigs left or chickens to leave eggs, but the winter would have them hidden and he was not sure if he could discover their place. He was not sure if he could slaughter or scavenge any more. He thought himself too old to toil with those things. He thought himself too old to wander this earth and hope to find enough to sustain him.

Soon, the project would be finished. He would sand the surface and shine the lacquer and put all the pieces into place and it would be done. In so many ways, it would be complete and he could think long on tomorrow and be done with it and say a final prayer to gods blessed with journeys and grave matters.

Nine

And she was there, wheezing and her eyes were fluttering in and out. She looked to him for peace and he clenched his teeth and felt the pressure build behind his eyes. He wadded the pillow in his hands and his lips quivered.

“Do this for me,” she whispered. “Do this for me. I don’t want the pain.”

The doctors had not come in so long and the house was empty now, empty of everything but the bed and the chair and the dresser against the wall. He sold it all to keep the house and care for his wife. But it was all no more. He had not seen another living soul in so long and he was left there to care for his wife by himself and she was faltering and he cried every day for her peace.

Her voice was a series of rasps, brittle beneath the surface like someone choking on their own life. He could see her pain rise and she would bend from it, waver and fall back into the soft down. She was so white now that she gave off a light from her skin, a foreboding glow of the seconds before loss.

At times she would stay so still that the old man had thought she had passed but then she would moan and the hurt would wash over him and he would drop the pillow to the floor and the flood of tears would come again to tear at him in his grief.

“Please,” she coughed. “Please take this away.”

And he lifted the pillow once more and shook with resolve. He placed it over her face and pressed his weight down as hard as he could and she did not struggle. Her hand lifted from the bed ever so slightly, but there was no fighting. Her hand lifted in the same way it had so many years ago when he placed the ring on her finger and promised forever.

So still and silent and forever had faltered like his aged hands and there came nothing but the wind and trailing dreams.

He backed away from the bed, stumbling on drunken regret and the tears began to wash away the stiffness on his face and scour the wrinkles and break his will.

She was so still. She was motionless, statuesque as the pillow fell to the floor, revealing the peace that crossed her mouth. And there was nothing. No cries, no coughing, no pain or feeble rasp to call an end to her suffering. There was nothing but silence and purpose - nothing but silent resolve for what he had done.

He lifted her from the bed and held her in his arms until the warmth filtered from her flesh. And he coughed out the grief and pressed her tighter to his chest and rocked back and forth as he wept and called her name through the faltering twilight that shimmered in leaded glass.

His mouth was thick from sorrow as he laid her back down and placed a white sheet over her body and went into the yard to dig the grave in the middle of the flower garden. There was fire in the sky as night broke and he made pains to lay her to rest. There were explosions that rocked the ground and yet he still dug, ever deeper into the black earth.

He took her and cradled her in his arms and he could feel his bones protest. He staggered through the door and out onto the porch and he watched the sky for a moment while he held her there. It was as an honor to her passing, this plume of flame that licked the stars covered in black.

So was his struggle through aching muscles and tired limbs to place her in the ground and place the bones of the child about her chest as if they had never parted. The boy had all but vanished, but his foundation was firm and the old man piled the earth above them and prayed to something he wasn’t sure could hear.

There came cold surfacing breaths of labor and guilt and solemn resolutions that would grace his lips for years to come. And he saw nothing nor heard trumpets, yet the burning skies knew his name and yelled out in tribulation. And the sounds did nothing to quench his heart.

He leaned down and placed the seeds into the soil and covered them lightly with a wave of his hand. He took water from the lake and blessed the place where they rested together and washed the dirt away from the creases of his hands as he poured out the rest. And the Earth drank of the cold and nursed it into itself and darkened there for a moment before the water was lost.

A bird broke its sleep and sang from the oak and swooped down to pay its respects as the ground continued to convulse through the reaping war of man. And he prayed for safety and speed as his wife took to the journey of souls across the river and into the hereafter. He imagined her smiling at him. He imagined her turning in the boat that glided across the divide and blessing him for having the courage to do what was needed. He imagined her offering forgiveness as the vessel lumbered along and carried her away with the ghost of the boy who had waited all this time for the simple embrace of a mother who could not be faulted with his passing.

Overhead, he saw the glare and flashes in the sky once more and heard the cries of the many. He heard the whimpers of those who fell that night and in the following days and he lowered his head and blessed them all. He blessed the children and the raping mouths. He blessed the hatred and the coming dawn. And he wept for all that had transpired and all that was torn away by violent hands.

Ten

He fixed the wood and cut the dowels and glued the lengths into place and clamped it all together. He placed the bulk of the project on a set of sawhorses and continued to fasten the pieces together.

Later that day, he traveled along the road. Replaced was the snow where his prints had been. Gone were the skids and swipes from weathered boots. Deep quiet graced his lips and his pain was lessened. He returned and rummaged through the streets and found the store for which he was searching. He had taken Isabelle here when she needed yarn to knit or thread to sew and for the fabric she used to stitch the sheets for the bed. It looked the same save for the singe marks on the outside wall. The door was unlocked and he let himself in.

Beneath the bloated ceiling there was so much to choose from, so much to take in that he swooned in place at the colors that had not been changed by the sun or the destruction that laid evil over the world. He chose a bright red satin and took the entire spool and tucked it under his arm and hobbled out into waste.

He came to a cross fastened from fallen branches and twine. Old silk flowers lay at the base with little notes of blotches and stain garnishing those remembered. Drifts of snow climbed along the edges. Distant memories, long lost and forgot. A bitter gust tore through and the cross wavered and leaned. Another and it fell to the ground. Into the blanket of white it disappeared and the old man looked no more.

Upon light poles hung bodies; disfigured and slack, drooping and disemboweled. Blackened and laughing at that which took them. Their spines run through on rebar hooks latched with care. Sunken eyes. Their faces spent, dried, and caved. Mouths agape. Silent screams in those very last moments. And he couldn’t imagine what crimes they had done.

Forgiveness is not a sin.

Bones heaped and covered with snow. Burnt markings on what once was white. Little hands grasped for something far away. Grinning skulls poked out where the drifts had receded from the wind.

He gargled a rasp and turned. His hand about his mouth as it inched open. The little hands clasped at something far away.

The air was clean and bitter and bit at his nose.  It crested around his mouth and showed his breath which faded into the white of the world. He yearned for something new and found the path he had not used since before his wife had passed.

Bare branches made a canopy over the narrow trail and wound through the thick saplings, also bare, and he struggled along the incline of the trail where it crested at the top of a hill. He stopped every so often to catch his breath and stared in wonder at the nature that came at him from all sides. There was depth to the beauty; a type of reflection he had not seen in so long that he had almost forgotten that it ever existed. Here, away from the waning world was life continuing without the assault of man, without restrictions or guiding fingers. Small creatures fluttered along in the snow. A cackle of unseen voices came from high in the trees.  Neither good nor bad, the essence of life would continue and it would blossom. It would live and it would die whether humanity was there to witness it or not.

A great many things became clear to the old man at that moment. And he made his way down from atop the hill and scattered his thoughts amongst the wild and untamed.

A voice called from the thickets, blanketed in snow, and the echo called out for far longer than the voice could have managed. “Is it done?” the woman asked.

“Yes, it is done,” the old man replied.

“And they are all gone?”

“A great many of them, yes,” he said. “But there are still a few.

“Then I am not the only one?” She smiled through her dirt stained face.

“I am here,” he said. “And I saw a young man the other day, he lives too.”

“But what of the gas?” she asked. “I heard there was gas that killed with only a breath.”

“I haven’t heard such things,” he replied. “I can only say that we are not the only ones.”

“Then maybe it will be better now,” she said. “Maybe we can move on and there will be no more hate.”

“There will always be those who hate for no reason.”

“But the wars are over and the people have won.”

“I cannot say. All I know is that there are no more explosions and the sky is no longer lit with fire. Of the war, I know nothing.”

“Then there is still time,” she said.

“There is never enough time,” he replied. “How have you remained safe? How did they not take you?”

She thought on this and her face contorted slightly with the memories.

I lay there beneath the bed, huddled against the wall to keep the warmth and the noise came tracing through the night and the pain in my body grew where the cold seeped in from the floor. Tighter, I held myself and looked through the slit of light that came from the window and wondered if they would find me and rape me and do the terrible things I’ve heard they promise.

And through that thread there came a glow like the light through the skin of a fingertip, red and bulging and showing signs of blood. And white was at its surface where the calluses have grown strong against abrasive things.

Through shivers of cold, the pounding of earth, trodden with machines of war coursing through damp and sinking streets came from far away where I could not see. Yet my body knew of their disaster and could feel the tension in the soil and I could feel them take away the ones I loved. I covered my ears and the booming shook at my tiny house and the ceiling rattled and the air smelled of dead things and sulfur and suffering flesh.

Exhaustion took me and beat upon me and ripped away the innocence that I’ve held so dear. And through the booming fire, I cried out at the horrible sounds I heard and I wept and yet peace was still beyond my reach.

And when silence finally fell and the Earth ceased to shake and the rumbling of my heart dismissed the last shred of aching limbs, I succumbed to sleep. It came in waves tempered by fear and finality.

They would be no more, I thought. They would be no more and this would be their end. They will burn as the sun upon lives of misled thoughts and purposes composed of lies told in sinking voices, of corpses come and gone. Of dire things meant to frighten the masses into submission. They would pay for their warring ways with fire and blood.

And this is how it is to end.

When I awoke, I said my name countless times to make sure it was real. I mouthed the syllables to see if they still rang true.

“I am not dead,” I said, and I was shocked by the words. “I am to live on and not fall as those screaming voices from afar. I will live.”

Rattled away from the plaster, dust clung to the furniture that was strewn about my home. And I trembled once again and hummed a tune from when I was a girl. “… falling down, falling down, my fair lady …”

I heard the men from outside. Their footfalls like deadened drums as they marched. And my fear became anew and I pulled at the floorboards beneath me and dug until my fingers were raw and I slid beneath the floor and placed the boards above me and whimpered a cry that I prayed they could not hear.

The door slammed inward and knocked the trinkets from the wall and the voices of the men rose to shouts and I could not breathe for fear of being heard. The blood made terrible sounds in my veins. I let the tears come freely and bit at the inside of my mouth to make it all stop. The thumping sounds of boots above. Slow in step, searching.

I heard the music box atop of my dresser scrape as it was pushed off to the side and it crashed heavily to the floor and the inside mirror broke and I bit at my mouth again for the destruction of the thing that had been left to me by my mother. That memento was no more. Gone were the whimpers in perfect time and still I did not breathe.

“No one is here,” said a voice laden in razor and glass.

A deep, booming reply, “I thought I saw someone through the window.

“You were wrong.”

“It was the shape of a woman.”

“There is no woman here.”

“I saw what I saw.”

“Maybe she went out through the back.”

Another door crashed and the footsteps receded through my house. A cough; slight and sickly. The scraping of boots on dry wood. And then only silence. There was darkness to the soundlessness, a depth to the quiet fall of leaves beyond the door and out in the world where the men went.

And after a time the voices returned.

“Maybe I saw the light come through the window back here and it hit that old dresser.”

“Maybe.”

“I thought it was a woman for sure.”

“Are we done wasting time?”

“Yeah, I’m done.”

And the boots knocked away and the quiet filled my home once more and I lay knotting my hands in prayer and asking for silence and peace and the death for my trembling heart so they would not hear its hymn.

There came the slightest touch on my arm. And then another. I could feel the things crawling in the darkness above the damp. They were between the wood beams and they made small sounds like chirps. And I forced myself not to scream and claw at the boards and free myself. They moved over my skin, scuttling along the hairs and I could feel them all too well between my fingers and along the soft of my wrists. I shooed them away and they returned. I bit my lip and made a sound that I wasn’t sure escaped and then I stopped and held still for what seemed to be hours.

When I could take no more, I pushed aside the boards and let myself out and breathed deep the air that came through the open doors. I stood and shook away the crawling things and my face tightened and I wanted to scream. And there in the smooth autumn colors, I cried in silence and terror at those who had come and gone away.

The old man stared at her and what her tale revealed and he closed his eyes and hoped the images she had placed there would go. “I’m sorry for what has been done to you,” he said. “But not all men are like that.”

“I wouldn’t know if they were,” she replied. “I wouldn’t know who to trust.”

“There is that young man in town that I told you of.” He pointed along the trail and returned to her gaze. “He is a goodly man. Find him and be safe.”

“Are you sure?”

“A great many things in this life remain a mystery to me, but of conviction and integrity, I know a great deal.” He nodded his head. “That man can be trusted.”

He turned to the trail once the woman was far enough away where he could only recall her path. The deep lines in the snow were all that was left of her journey and, if he followed, he could see from where she had come. As curious as it was, it left little value to the old man’s imagination and he had other matters to attend.

Along the trail he came across ghosts of thought, pale reminders that held little meaning. But upon better inspection, he saw that these memories were vague representations of the life he had led. Each apparition consisted of points in his life, subtle reflections of what he had been through and he squinted to get a better look.

There at the side of the trail was his son and his face was red from the cold. A younger version of himself, the boy had his mother’s eyes, but the old man’s stern gaze. The boy cast the line from his pole and wound it back in again. He looked to the old man and smiled knowingly before casting out once more.

He remembered the moment when he had looked through the window at his son on the lake. It came in a vision through the trees. He saw the boy wave and returned to the house to read the paper in his old chair. Even if he had stayed there, looking through the window, he would not have seen the flash of blue break through the ice. Even if he had been standing there next to the boy, he would not have been able to fish him out from the icy depths. He would have been helpless either way and the cold would have killed him too. The vision was somber and he thought of it in the same way that he thought of his own death. It was unquestionable and vague. It was true only up to the moment of passing. It was unimaginable.

“He’s still too young to go out on the lake on his own,” Isabelle said.

“He’ll be fine. He’s grown so much. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Still, I don’t like him out there by himself.”

“He’ll be fine, I promise.”

Blue and bloated, he dragged the body from the icy water. The spark was gone, the fine features of the child a faint memory encapsulated in ice and frosty repose. No amount of tears would have brought the boy back. No, tears never did a thing.

His heart yearned for the boy and he reached out to touch him, but he was already gone. Not even the slightest echo of his image remained. He thought of the woman he spoke to in the woods and wondered where she would go. He wondered where anyone would go now that it was finished. He wondered how many of them were out there, searching for others in the cold, snow covered streets of the world. The thought did little to calm him. Loss was simply loss.

Eleven

After he had taken her, after he had put her into the earth, the sky was still lit with gruesome flares. He saw the explosions in the distance and heard shouting that trembled with fear. He took to the cellar and slammed the doors in haste. He set the latch and crawled to the back of the room on the dirt floor and listened.

An eerie wind lapped at the loose boards of the door, singing small songs of wrestles tomorrows, of the coming days, of new pains to be endured. His hands still shook, but the tears were but stains on his cheeks. One day, new tears would come and they would stain him deeply. But until that day arrived, he wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around his feeble body and hug himself through the night as the sounds leaped over the forest and rivers and coughing mouths to make them become no more.

Dust rained down through the moonlight, seeping in through the wood slats and it peppered his face and stung at his eyes and made the coughing worsen.

And he thought of Isabelle. He thought of her pleas, he thought of her slight and steady hand. He took her image and nestled it away in the back of his mind where it was emblazoned there for days to come. Her image was perfect. Her mouth parted and glanced off to the side. Her fingers unfurled. Her hand lifted and then there was no more as it sank to the cool linen.

If he could have spoken to her, he would have said that he was happy she could go as death came to others. He would have told her that he was glad that she could be in their company on her journey across the river and that she would not be alone. He would have said that he was sorry for the way their son had passed. He would have curled his hands into a ball above his chest and ask if she would forgive him his idle ways. He would have told her how much she meant to him and asked for her blessings in death.

By morning, the earth had become calm. He could no longer feel the quivering stones at the base of his spine and the smell of sulfur had worn along the walls. Calmness came and the fighting was no more. He stayed there, curled in on himself and still clung tightly to his tired bones. And he knew he was alone.

The knocking in his heart began that day and it hurt to remember. It hurt to move as he sobbed and shook from those memories. The pain made him alive while so many others had gone. And he struggled with the knots in his hands and back and felt the suffering as it had never been before. He knew this would be with him until he was gone too.

He wrote her name in the dirt floor of the cellar. Over and again, he would scribe those simple letters and wipe them away only to scribble them once more. He yearned for the swipe of her hand that would send her name across the page and he rose and dusted himself off and set himself to the stairs that led out from the darkness.

He could smell that there had been fire and it was only masked by the rain and the guilt that flooded from him. But it was quiet. The air was still and only the sky wept for the souls who had been lost to the night. There was an unquenchable hunger deep within and he knew it would not satisfy so easily. This was not a hunger of the flesh, but a hunger of the soul. And he let the feeling engulf him fully. He knew his days would be lined in this feeling and there was nothing he could do to quench it.

Alone in the rain, he counted the emotions until none were left and he held himself once more and patted at his shoulders to stir the blood.

He stopped at the garden and blessed it with shallow breath and went into the old house and looked into the silence. All was calm and still and he had to listen carefully to hear the rain. The timbres began to moan and the sound nursed him and caressed the knots from his body. The old house moved for him so that he was not utterly alone. It knew of his days. It felt for his grief and it cried out in empathy.

The boards on the floor felt his weight and called him by name and the ceiling rejoiced and felt for him in the gray light that scattered through the open window. And for a moment, his soul was quiet and he knelt and took in the gentle weeping of the rafters and joists and the creaking nails that wished nothing more than to bend from their restraints.

“In here, all is as it should be,” he said. “Nothing is without reach or too proud to shelter an old man. This is where I will rest until the time when I am called and can be with the love I’ve lost.”

He rose and looked out to the lake and the memories, faded and old, became new again and he felt the knocking in his heart and it was whole.

“Guide me and bring me home safe,” he said. “Amen.”

Twelve

He turned the wood in his hand and felt the knots smoothed away by love and saw the perfection in the flaws and sighed in relief at the beauty of it all. He glued in the fabric and stuffed it with hay. He worked the lid and fastened the handles.

“Nearly done and you shall guide me across the waters,” he said and snuffed the wick of the lantern on the wall.

The shop became dark and soulful. A crisp light played at the window, giving sight to the chimes he could hear from the porch. The glare of fire through the woods as sunset drifted solemnly over the snow covered trees at the far end of the lake. That burning flame of time untold parting whitewashed branches and needles of deep green in sudden sleep, so calm that even death could not give it a name. And the moon would come shortly and blanket the white in blue and tell of things in hushed voices so the downtrodden could not hear their secrets.

“The gifting of moments,” he said and closed the door behind him and scurried through the snow in hobbles and moans at the cold wind that lapped at his body.

The kitten sat at the side of the door as the old man entered and it greeted him with whiskers and calming purrs. He leaned down and patted it on the head and went to the kitchen to open a can of food so the kitten could eat and he sat in silence and watched as the small thing ate to its fill.

“Maybe you are my guide and I am indebted to you for giving me your time,” he said and the kitten listened.

The kitten gave a nod.

The old man smiled at this and patted the kitten on the head and stroked its face and smoothed back the whiskers and looked into its eyes as it cleaned away the bits of fish and sauce from its maw with long swipes from its tongue.

He smiled at the kitten once more. “And maybe you will show me the way of great things and give me rest in my time of need.”

Again the kitten nodded.

And the old man laughed from his belly and rose and opened a box of milk so the kitten would have its fill.

He slept curled by the kitten on his bed of down and petted it through the night in between dreamy, somber groans. There came to him an image so real that he thought he lived it and the steam of its reproach granted him that life which he had never lived.

So small were the flowers that they could not be picked for fear of tearing them and ruining their graceful edges. And no one dared take them from the earth for they were a gifted thing, bright and living in the cresting sun. So small like tiny hands lifting the world upon their palms.

And the flowers pointed to the sun and showed the way of life over the water and on the rim of the world. So far away that it remained unseen. They could be counted, but their numbers would be lost. They pointed out the direction of the journey home and for that, the old man was thankful.

He awoke fresh and livid and rejoicing in the things he had seen in his sleep. He left his cane alone and placed the wood and lit the stove with a fiery laugh. And he placed the pot of water atop the burner so as to boil his coffee and rested in leisure at the counter until the kitten was made known.

A lean and a grunt from his back and he brushed the kitten along the side of its face and it nodded to his effort. He took a can from the cupboard and opened it and gave it to the kitten full and the sounds of lapping filled the room.

“What I told you about dying,” the old man said.

The kitten swayed on its full belly and leered the way of the man.

“What I told you, it isn’t as true now,” he continued. “I don’t know what awaits me, but it doesn’t deserve fear. It should only be allowed quiet.”

The kitten looked on.

“It doesn’t need my acceptance or disdain. It only is.” He turned on the faucet and heard the whine of the pump and washed his hands. “When I pulled my boy from the lake, I knew what suffering was. A father should never outlive his son. But that was the way of it. I couldn’t take it back. A part of me went the way of the boy’s soul, and I never saw it again. Now I can see it again. It is the changing of seasons, the progression of time and it continues whether I accept it or not. Life moves on.”

The dark grounds of coffee bobbed in the water and sank and he stirred the brew and let it boil. With care, he poured it into the press he had not used in a long time and placed the filter on top and slowly pushed it down to rid the grounds. The fragrant oils surfaced and he poured the brew into his mug and smelled the aroma so deep and thankful for his effort.

He savored the rich lace and let it steep in his mouth. Great things came to mind and he went onto the porch to see the season.

Warmer, the sun broke through the clouds and shone brightly along the melting snow. Ice dripped from the overhang and dropped to a trim of open earth along the house. He could smell the scent of morning and let it trace about his senses until he was full.

“A grateful morning this is to be,” he proclaimed and leaned against the railing to take in the scene.

Far down at the lake, the ice was all but gone. Only the smallest patches dotted the banks. Fingers of cold, clutching. And he could see the rings form on the surface out toward the center. In and out, here and there along the ink, circles formed. He heard a call in the woods and it was long and deep and echoed throughout, taking its time to reach his ears again, repeating. And he gazed back and the ringlets were gone away and the lake returned to glass, reflecting away his troubles.

He left his mug on the railing and went out into the remaining slush and calmed himself with a walk. He spread his fingers and looked at the deep grooves etched in his hand and then to the sky which was blanketed in blue.

“What world is this?” he asked and turned in place to gather it all in.

Soon there would be buds to form at the branches of timeless trees, timeless to eyes that would remain faint and transpire with coming dawns. And the flowers would come and all would be forgotten. A new dawn to usher in all that would follow. A drowning dawn so bright that time would have its end.

Along the gravel road, the old man sidestepped the slush and watched his feet and took care as he traveled. He walked so long that the sign to the entrance of town came into view and he did not look its way. 

And he came to the clearing at the base of the park and they were there, the woman he had seen in the woods and the young man that had had the armload of cigarettes and they were holding hands in the twinkling light upon a bench below a great tree.

They looked into one another’s eyes and were lost there. The breeze had him smile and at the corners of his mouth, a roadmap of gathered skin. And this time his tears were made of joy. Happy for they had found something within all of this and their time was yet to begin and he hoped for many days and a promise of forever from their lips.

The young man looked up from sleepy eyes filled with love and saw the old man watching. And he smiled to him and waved his hand above his head.

“I’ve found someone,” the young man said and looked to the woman.

The old man grinned and came closer. “Not all is lost,” he said back, stifling a cough.

“What’s your name, old man?”

“I … I don’t know.”

The man and woman laughed.

“She is with child,” the man said, and felt about the woman’s belly. “If she has a boy, we want to name him after you because you brought us together.”

The old man thought, but could not bring his name. “I really do not know.”

The woman smiled through the smears of dirt and tilted her head to the side. “Then we will call him Life after that which you have given us.”

The old man held his smile and gave a simple nod.

And they returned to one another and their eyes fastened again to those faraway promises that must be kept and the simple happiness they knew. So often the old man had looked at his own wife in that way and they knew that happiness. And he saw this from them and it gave him something bigger than the world and what it was and what it had become and the smile lingered along his cheeks for some time.

“If you have a girl you should name her Joy for that is what you have gifted me.”

“It’s a deal, old man,” the young man replied and returned to his playful gaze.

The park was empty and cool, save for the two gathered there in love and the old man went out to the budding life and constructed his own out of memory and purpose. He thrilled at the sight of life returning again and its newness and the chimes could still be heard over the stirring sun and all was well in this moment of peace.

And there were new things fluttering and gathering too. Fresh life found in small things that scurry and crawl and go on and surge in this great gift to living souls. It is the same for those creatures as it is for us, the old man thought. The birds chirp with the spark of life and their cohorts too and all is turning the circle in the greatest chance of all - this thing called spirit. It is pure and true.

The promise must be kept.

He discovered time in a passing whisper. Uncovered was the faint hint that would guide him on his way. No more coming tides or waning moons. No precious moments lost to tread and toil. No hounding thoughts of what could have been or from whence it came.

That most precious gift granted to him. Not of life or death. Not of living or life spent. This was beyond the grasp of mortal eyes and shouted to only those in passing.

His heart gave again and drowned in the moment. And everything became black and void and then there was light. Refreshing, pure and clean, it dawned upon his chest and borrowed time became his own.

He leapt up and let his cane fall and the road became nothing more than a blur beneath his feet.

The meaning of life was simply to live and share time with those who live and gather your flowers and plant your gardens and water the soil and build great things out of nothing to leave it all to those who will live in another day.

The meaning of life is to have and to hold forever more in that garden you have built and toiled away time to show the future what is to come.

The meaning of life is to gather and give freely and not want for the things that you would never need.

The meaning of life is so small it can be seen from the stars like the sun drifting over the banks of a great body of water, gathered there to light the way for those who are thirsty.

That night he slept on those thoughts and made dreams of tomorrow.

Thirteen

He woke to a fluttering heart and he knew that his time was near. The dawning sun counted to its last. And feeble thoughts would be no more. How many times had he seen it rise? How many times had he missed its fire? He paid no heed and counted his blessings, every one.

He coughed and his chest hurt. His eyes watered and he gritted it away. He rose and the kitten purred and silence was all around. Coming from the shell of damaged things, this life courted him and held him straight. He wavered and curled his toes on the carpet beneath the bed. The sensation held and he steadied himself there, resting a moment longer.

“One more walk,” he wheezed. “One more and this can be finished.”

He lifted himself and pulled on his trousers and buttoned his shirt and made the outline of a cross on his chest.

He coughed again and could feel the pang deep in his spine. He breathed away the nuisance and filtered through the house.

Another few days, maybe, he thought.

Alone, the road was quiet and bare. The snow, now gone, had left its mark, and worked away the fine granules of dirt and left the gravel as bare and clean as specimens kept for watchful eyes. The colors varied, but their purpose was still true. And that need they provided would continue for long after the old man had taken the journey.

“How long?” he wondered aloud.

But he knew that nature would one day take it all back and claim what was rightfully its own and the pale speck of humanity that was left would not challenge it for some time to come. There was peace in that thought and it made him all the more resolute in his path.

Along a thin wisp of a trail, covered in already sprouting new growth, he heard the scream. It was weak and yet so loud. The cries were as nails to his skin. The old man quickened his pace, his heart raced and beat out terrible rhythm and still he labored.

There, ahead on the trail he found the source of the painful cries. Two men stood with a flash of razor and they cut upon the other man with grins ripped across their taut mouths, stretched to oblivion. And they cursed and spat at him and still he screamed. He pleaded for death and begged for forgiveness and that request went unheard and they kept cutting.

His heart stammered and yelled at him to act, but he saw what they had already done. He saw too much. The skin was all but gone from the man’s frame. The bone bit through muscle. The cries were near at end. His arms tied as a martyr and he bled more than his share and still the old man looked on as the sorrow swept his face and tore at him from inside out.

And it was done and the men laughed over the kill and all was calm as they took to the woods and cleared a bluff and disappeared into the wild that had taken the name of forgiveness away.

The old man with thick in his mouth and wet for eyes could not cry out. The print of sorrow stuck at his lips and would not move. Gore on the man tied to the trees. Terrible wretched cries had gone soft and mute. And the thick strewn across his lips and his silent plea was lost on the edge of his mouth, clung there for eternity. He knew of forever. He knew it would come too soon.

A cross fashioned in the man’s chest, deeply gouged. The same as the old man had done before he left the house. Tore through to the bone and his eyes would not move; they would not waver. They took it in and imprinted that vision there in his mind for always. And it did not falter. It would not leave him be or allot peace or calm his shaking hands or the thick that came running from him in the spring air so long it reaped of cold.

Alone he wept and cried in shifting spasm, yet his voice would not come. What crime? What crime for this? He mouthed the words over and again. And the wind would not answer in return.

He carried away that grief, perched stoically on caved shoulders that already held too much. Neither harps nor trumpets played and the unfeeling thing had let it be. That cold rush of carelessness and unmoved reserve trembled in guiltless abandon.

And that thing which gave birth to all would not show itself or take the man down from the tree to rest finally. 

And the air was cold again save for the sun that warmed the flesh and cooked the meat on the dead man’s bones and brought the flies to eat away at that which remained.

The hours moved, and on he looked as the body dripped its last drop and the earth took it greedily and consumed it all. He went to the body after some time and picked up the razor from the ground and held it as the blood stained his hand. He cut the cords that held him there and let the body drop and rustle the old wet leaves and he knelt beside the man and said something soft into his ear, but there was no soul to take the meat of the meaning.

Somber, he dug with his hands until there was a rut in the ground and he pushed the husk inside and placed the sheets of skin there on top and covered it with leaves and said a prayer only few could recite. He said these things as tears welled in his eyes and he remembered the war of man that would not end. He cursed himself under his breath and damned it all.

And a crow called from a dead cedar and it was done. No pain for this man again and his breath would be extinguished forevermore and nothing would come back to bring peace to his soul. And the old man saw it was all for naught, this hatred in their hearts to do something so vile. And he wondered at the men who would inherit the Earth.

They caught him up on the road and laughed at the blood on his hands and mocked him for his heart.

“Did you bury him, old man? Did you waste what precious life you had on a man who had gathered riches while others starved?” The man wore a mask about the lower half of his face and it moved as he spoke.

The old man nodded and looked to the dirt and leaves that gathered at his feet.

“Maybe we should do the same with him,” the other man said.

The old man glanced his way and said nothing.

“This withered thing has nothing,” the other in the mask replied. “Look at him in his rags, bundled up, wasting breathe on a soul who gave no care to no one.”

“What are you, old man?”

He shook his head. “I am nothing.”

The men laughed and pushed the old man to the ground.

“You see here?” he questioned, his mask fumbling about his mouth. “He knows he is nothing for giving proper burial to someone who could have easily taken all that he had. Everything he worked his life for ...” The man in the mask looked down and pulled the cloth away from his face. “You waste your time with him?” His question was laced in spit.

“A life is a life.”

The man spit on him and pulled the mask up over his face.

As they walked away, they looked back at the old man on the ground. They cursed him his nature and disappeared into the trees.

Fourteen

He sat solemn on the ground by the lake and took in the view. His heart ached for the man in the woods and he tried to make sense of what he had seen. His arms ached from where he had been pushed and his hands were sore from rising again. The visions of the man hanging between the trees haunted his sleep and the image became restless with passing days and the pain he felt merely masked the symptoms.

No amount of toil ended his torment and he found little hope for the world and its ways after what the men had done to him. And he held himself much in the same way as he had when the fire lit the sky and he put his dear love to rest beneath the garden with their son.

And he thought long on the web weaved for his life from the knowing hands of unseen things and what it meant and where he was to go now that it was nearly done. His life was long and his conviction never wavered. When the choice arose he had always done what he felt was right in his heart and he never faltered or complained for that which he did not have. He had always treated others in the way he thought would gift dignity and compassion. He had made his bed with loving hands and paid that which was due. And he thought that this was why he had not succumbed to death.

“Death, have you forgotten me?” he asked. “Is that why I am still here to feel as if I were an empty thing without purpose? Will you ever remember me again?”

But no voice returned and he was left pondering thoughts so delicate they would break if he grasped too hard. These fragile thoughts churned within and tempered the blade of his heart and coughed out for the failing spark that would soon be lost.

In the setting sun he saw a flock of birds gather in the rays and swoop and form and fly off into nothingness, vanishing without a breath to give them space.

And he heard thunder clap in the distance, perhaps from another world entirely and it made him buckle under its boom. He saw lightning crest in his eyes and part the divide and the misery in his heart failed for a moment and then was gone like anger in the wake of birth.

Something new washed his eyes and made him see and the lightning was gone, but yet the rain still came and began to sprinkle down from the heavens and gift him sight.

In that moment he could hear the kitten call from the doorway and it sat at the approach and watched as the old man gave tears to the day for all that had come and gone. So was his mounting eyes, bulged from knowing and seeing and being in the presence of God. And he heard that without one there could not be the other. And he knew what it was that tempted life through the days and saw great things cascade in a moments glance.

“All things equal,” he said. “When good is done an evil takes its place. And when that evil fades, good comes in its shadow to brighten the day. So it is with all things under the sun and nothing can stop its workings. Not you or I. Neither the fire nor the rain can keep it at bay. And only when this is seen truly can we fade from our past and look toward the promise of tomorrow.”

He stood and brushed the soil from his legs and mounted the stairs and leaned down to pet the kitten. And its eyes reflected brightness which he had only seen in the stars and he gathered that feeling and lived it for several breaths and counted each one so it would not go unnoticed.

He gazed in its eyes and it acknowledged him and gave him peace unfaltering and true. And he scooped it up in his arms and held it close and felt the purring and it shook his chest and lingered and took away the pangs of his heart and gave him hope.

“When I am gone, this is yours,” he said. “I will leave the door open so you can come and go at will. You can fend for yourself now. And when I take to my journey, do not fear for I am going somewhere great, somewhere you cannot follow. But one day I hope to see you again when you are ready.”

He took the kitten into the house and opened a can for it and watched as it lapped at what was inside. And the food covered its face and stained the whiskers yellow like the setting sun and conspired to make the old man laugh.

He went to his room and sat on the old chair once more and rocked slowly as he peered out the window at the end of the day and was grateful for what he had. The kitten took to his lap and made a circle before lying down and it purred as the old man stroked its fur, so soft beneath his weathered hands. Together, they watched the sun go and the moon come and lived there in peace for another night, tempting dawn and refusing to speak its name.

And when the sun gathered and outlined the trees on the far side of the lake, the old man stood and brushed himself off and took to the hallway and fed the kitten again and left the door open on his way out into the morning air.

Determined, he returned to the shop and finished the project. His chest tight, he fitted the latch and hinges and polished and waxed the wood and led the boat out onto the floor and reminisced over memories come and gone. It was a great feeling to know purpose and pride in what he had made.

It would tread the waters and sail into tomorrow, the tomorrow he had yearned for in his youth. It would grant him hope and give reflection of all he had done. This achievement final and it would all come to an end. This aching heart finally at rest. This need to break free and live again in the land of forever tomorrow, and it would be his last and most precious moment.