She looks at the photograph.
Three-by-two, black and white snapshot
Of a young boy she never knew.
Next to it, on her vanity,
A school portrait of a teenage girl
Spotty with age, also unknown.
But one day, long ago, the boy
And girl met in a high school hallway,
Dust motes rising in the sunlight
Of a spring afternoon.
Together, years later, they created her.
And then two others.
Now they are dust, leaving only images
Of themselves, from the time before
Us.
she writes in the odd
corners of the day, paper
pen, a bit of quiet
cloud condensation
at terminal velocity
endless rainy days
spring hopes eternal
thaw, bud, push, grow, surge, race to
the burn of summer
They like viewing art together. They go to the museum or a new gallery and view the art. They talk about it, there, at the museum or gallery and later, in a coffee shop or restaurant or while walking down the street or even late at night, at home. They discuss and dissect the art they’ve viewed together, what they liked or didn’t like, how it made them feel. Looking at art is one of the things they enjoy doing together, in public.
There are other things they enjoy doing together, but those things cannot be done in public.
Image by Steven Tannenbaum
n the night, Old Man heard Boy get up and leave his bedroom. “He’ll be going to the toilet,” Old Man thought. But Boy walked past the bathroom. Old Man heard the top stair moan, the fourth step creak. He struggled out of bed. Old Man grabbed his robe, searched with one foot for his slippers. The back door slammed. He gave up.
Old Man got downstairs and outside in time to see Boy’s white-blond head disappear into the summer night. “Not again!”
Old Man stepped onto the dew slicked lawn and headed down the yard. Through the hedge and alongside the vegetable garden, he made out Boy’s shadow in the small orchard. “I’m too old for this nonsense.” Something rustled in the bush and Old Man walked faster.
Boy moved slowly, his head swaying from side to side. He entered the little wood that divided the two properties.
“Damnit.” With his longer legs, Old Man was catching up, but not quickly enough.
Old Man emerged from the wood, the smell of wet ash and burnt wood hit him in the face. Boy stood at the back door or the darkened hulk, his hand on the door knob.
“No.” Old Man whispered. Boy turned slowly.Old Man could see Boy’s eyes, open wide but sleeping, sightless.
He went to him, laid his hand on Boy’s thin shoulder and guided him gently away.
A bird trilled. Old Man looked up to the silvering sky. “Almost dawn.”
They walked. Through the wood and orchard, up the garden, into the lightening dawn, back to the big white house.
Old Man sat Boy down on the edge of the bed, wiped his feet with a corner of his robe and eased Boy back onto his pillow. His eyes were closed now but tears gleamed on his cheeks. “Grandpa?” Boy murmured.
“You sleep son.”
In the morning, smells of coffee and toast awakened Boy. He stretched and sat up, unfurling his cramped fingers. A circle of soot marked his palm, the faint odor of burnt metal obliterated the aroma of breakfast.
“Not again!” Crying, Boy went to wash his hands.
Image by Amanda Ball
“In or out?” I asked the cat. He went out. Then in. Then out again. This was his habit. But he always came home for dinner.
“In or out?” I asked the dog. She went halfway out, straddled the threshold, sniffed the air. This was her habit. I waited. She came in when it was time for dinner .
“In or out?” the doctor asked our mother. “You have a decision to make.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to continue going into the hospital for your heart failure?”
“Or?”
“You could choose to stay out, to stay at home.”
“And die?”
“We can provide comfort care.”
“I’m in the habit of living.”
“No one goes on forever. You’re pretty sick.”
We waited.
“I’m hungry, I want my dinner.”
Image by Harrison Fulop
