Mother’s Knowledge
It was a frigid morning.
She lay beneath thin covers, thinking it was about time to pull the heavy comforter out. Her breath streamed in wispy clouds. The furnace would need to be serviced before winter stepped any closer. She enjoyed these moments, the still crisp air that slipped past window frames and invaded the house with winter’s kiss.
Downstairs, the coffee machine belched. When it was quiet again, she quickly dressed and descended to the first floor, the worn steps protesting each step. The kitchen silence was broken by the second hand of an old clock.
The first sip of coffee was the best part of the day.
She stood at the sink, gazing out of a dusty window, caffeine flooding her senses. The sun had yet to rise above the low-lying hills, casting a shadowless gray pall over the fields. It would be mid-morning before sharp shadows fell on the frosted turf, melting the icy crystals that painted the earth a white haze.
The horses were usually at the fence, waiting for their buckets. Perhaps they were at the round bale. She would eat breakfast first, let them wait. The coffee wasn’t strong enough to snap her fully awake. She was feeling a little weak, a bit shaky. Sometimes her blood sugar was out of balance. Eating would help.
She had grown weary lately, feeling the drag of the musty walls and chipped paint, the old bones of the house draped around her like a frayed sweater. Living alone all these years had healed her soul, but there were mornings she felt as tired as the house.
With half a cup of coffee in her, she turned on the radio. Jazzy sounds filled the house. The iron pan was heating on the stove when a haze of static crackled through the soothing music. It was overcast. Sometimes reception wasn’t good.
Pulling open the refrigerator, she pinched two eggs between her nervous fingers and watched them slip out. They cracked open on the floor in a one-two punch. A tiny curse slipped between her teeth. The static cleared from the radio and music played as she cleaned the mess and washed her hands.
Someone was in the pasture.
His figure was still and gray, the details diluted in the pale morning. She continued drying her hands with a towel. This sort of thing happened from time to time. She would often feel him out there first. Sometimes she would see him by the driveway or on the hillside. He was always at a distance, always watching her.
The fantasies of a lonely woman.
She assigned her delusions to her guilty past, a wish to undo her regrets. A wish to be somewhere other than here.
This morning he didn’t disappear.
She would sometimes stand in the pasture with buckets and stare at the apparition until it went back to the ethers of her past. It was her way of confronting her agitated mind, a way of not backing down. She no longer assigned guilt for the things she had done.
So she watched this time until the kitchen filled with smoke, butter crackling on the heated pan. And then he began walking.
He climbed over the fence.
He walked around her truck.
He crossed the driveway, his gait as confident and slow as she remembered. And then she lost sight of him as he rounded the house. Standing in her kitchen, hands clenching the towel, she figured that was his disappearing act. A little different than all the other times.
But she waited.
She watched.
The railing wobbled outside. The slats on the porch creaked.
When the door opened, she dropped the towel. A small sound escaped her lips. Her heart swelled. He stopped inside the mudroom, his features obscured in the smoky air, the pan spattering hot butter against the splash guard.
But she could feel him, smell him.
She swallowed down a ball of hope that refused to go quietly.
He moved closer, his boots loud and final. His whiskers were salty, his eyes worn leather. When he reached for her, when he cupped her cheek with his callused hand, the smell of perspiration musky and familiar, she closed her eyes.
Afraid to open them, afraid she would wake alone in the kitchen with only his lingering scent, she spoke in the darkness of hope.
“Am I dreaming?” Cali whispered.
He put his arms around her, pressing his beating chest to hers. His lips to her ears, he whispered.
“We all are.”
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Copyright © 2015 by Tony Bertauski
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
This book is a work of fiction. The use of real people or real locations is used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to real persons is purely coincidental.
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