by Shawn Inmon (Visual Prompt)
John put the teakettle on the stove, clicked the knob a notch to the right and the flame bloomed with a small whoosh. The coffee pot to the left of the stove sat cold and unused, but stained with the residue of a hundred uses. He supposed he should have cleaned it up and donated it, but he hadn’t managed to get around to it. There were so many things he hadn’t gotten around to. After three months, her clothes still hung in the master bedroom and he had continued to dress in the guest room like he had for the last 20 years.
The kettle rattled and threatened to whistle. He hated that sound, that piercing, headache-inducing sound, so he picked it up before it reached its full voice and poured the steaming water over his teabag. In the not-so-long-ago, he poured hot water in to heat the cup, poured it down the sink and refilled it from the teapot so the cup and the water would be as hot as possible. He didn’t bother with that today. There was no need.
The tea steeped and he looked out the kitchen window. It had snowed overnight and stray flakes still settled in here and there, looking for a home. The back yard was filled with gently rolling drifts, covering the trees, the bench where he and Mary had sat on so many summer evenings, the birdfeeders, everything. If there was anything alive out there, it was hidden. He threw the teabag away in the trash can under the sink and stared at the barren back yard, seeing nothing but remembering everything.
In the middle of winter, it was so hard to remember that spring would come.
“Mary…” he started to say, but his voice broke, his throat thickened, and nothing else would come. He shook his head gently from side to side and tears spilled over and ran down his unshaven cheeks.
Instead of finishing whatever thought ended that sentence, he carried his tea into the dining room, blowing on it to make it cool enough to drink. He sat in the same place he always had and looked at the framed pictures hanging on the wall. They had three children, and there were dozens of pictures that memorialized the graduations, the weddings, the new families. They made him smile, but when he did, more tears spilled over.
He reached out thoughtfully and poked at Mary’s prescription bottles. They were contained in the little carrier he had used to sort out her pills each week. He plucked his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He wanted to make sure he found the right bottle. When he did, he emptied it onto the table in front of him and separated the pills into piles of three. He methodically swallowed one little pile with each sip of tea until they were all gone. He put the lid back on the empty pill bottle and replaced it in the little carrier. A place for everything…
He made one last trip through the house, checking to make sure he had unlocked the front door. He was ready to say good-bye to everything, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the front door being kicked in. He stopped in front of the bookcase he had built many years before and ran his hands along the spines of the books that were like old friends. He thought about sitting down and reading a few pages of the bible his father had given him, but he was already feeling light-headed and wasn’t sure he would be able to get back up. Once he had double-checked that the burner on the stove was off and everything was in order, he walked down the long hallway to the master bedroom.
He sat a little gingerly on the side of the bed. He had made the bed when he had woken up that morning and he didn’t want to mess it up, so he lay down on top of the floral bedspread. He turned his head to look at the picture on the bedside table. It was the two of them on their wedding day, captured in the sharp black and white of the 1956. They were young and sure of where they were heading. And, they had been right. They had gotten there. The young couple smiling with serene happiness and not a care in the world never had a thought for what came after.
John reached out for the picture and saw that his hand was shaking. Still, he managed to pick the frame up without dropping it. He held it against his chest, a lover’s embrace. He closed his eyes and thought of Mary as he fell softly into sleep.
John put the teakettle on the stove, clicked the knob a notch to the right and the flame bloomed with a small whoosh. The coffee pot to the left of the stove sat cold and unused, but stained with the residue of a hundred uses. He supposed he should have cleaned it up and donated it, but he hadn’t managed to get around to it. There were so many things he hadn’t gotten around to. After three months, her clothes still hung in the master bedroom and he had continued to dress in the guest room like he had for the last 20 years.
The kettle rattled and threatened to whistle. He hated that sound, that piercing, headache-inducing sound, so he picked it up before it reached its full voice and poured the steaming water over his teabag. In the not-so-long-ago, he poured hot water in to heat the cup, poured it down the sink and refilled it from the teapot so the cup and the water would be as hot as possible. He didn’t bother with that today. There was no need.
The tea steeped and he looked out the kitchen window. It had snowed overnight and stray flakes still settled in here and there, looking for a home. The back yard was filled with gently rolling drifts, covering the trees, the bench where he and Mary had sat on so many summer evenings, the birdfeeders, everything. If there was anything alive out there, it was hidden. He threw the teabag away in the trash can under the sink and stared at the barren back yard, seeing nothing but remembering everything.
In the middle of winter, it was so hard to remember that spring would come.
“Mary…” he started to say, but his voice broke, his throat thickened, and nothing else would come. He shook his head gently from side to side and tears spilled over and ran down his unshaven cheeks.
Instead of finishing whatever thought ended that sentence, he carried his tea into the dining room, blowing on it to make it cool enough to drink. He sat in the same place he always had and looked at the framed pictures hanging on the wall. They had three children, and there were dozens of pictures that memorialized the graduations, the weddings, the new families. They made him smile, but when he did, more tears spilled over.
He reached out thoughtfully and poked at Mary’s prescription bottles. They were contained in the little carrier he had used to sort out her pills each week. He plucked his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He wanted to make sure he found the right bottle. When he did, he emptied it onto the table in front of him and separated the pills into piles of three. He methodically swallowed one little pile with each sip of tea until they were all gone. He put the lid back on the empty pill bottle and replaced it in the little carrier. A place for everything…
He made one last trip through the house, checking to make sure he had unlocked the front door. He was ready to say good-bye to everything, but he couldn’t bear the thought of the front door being kicked in. He stopped in front of the bookcase he had built many years before and ran his hands along the spines of the books that were like old friends. He thought about sitting down and reading a few pages of the bible his father had given him, but he was already feeling light-headed and wasn’t sure he would be able to get back up. Once he had double-checked that the burner on the stove was off and everything was in order, he walked down the long hallway to the master bedroom.
He sat a little gingerly on the side of the bed. He had made the bed when he had woken up that morning and he didn’t want to mess it up, so he lay down on top of the floral bedspread. He turned his head to look at the picture on the bedside table. It was the two of them on their wedding day, captured in the sharp black and white of the 1956. They were young and sure of where they were heading. And, they had been right. They had gotten there. The young couple smiling with serene happiness and not a care in the world never had a thought for what came after.
John reached out for the picture and saw that his hand was shaking. Still, he managed to pick the frame up without dropping it. He held it against his chest, a lover’s embrace. He closed his eyes and thought of Mary as he fell softly into sleep.