by Liv Ross
The old man woke before dawn. It was quiet save for a soft creaking as the walls settled into the new spring day, and by the quieter snaps and pops of the old man’s joints as he rose from bed. He dressed against the chill of the morning air and padded in slippered feet down to the kitchen.
As water boiled for coffee, he refilled the firebox and stoked up the flames that had died down during the night. The sun had risen by this point, so he went to the lamp burning in the front window. The oil was low. He would need to refill it before night fell. Otherwise, it had burned faithfully through the night. The flame now seemed pale and fragile against the much stronger light of the rising sun. The old man removed the glass globe and blew out the wick. As he settled the lamp back on the table, he peered out the window, craning his neck to see along the road. There were no travelers coming from either direction.
A sigh. A quiet one. Then he returned to the kitchen. The water was bubbling in the kettle now. He cranked the little hand grinder and filled the coffee filter. The ritual was much more complex than his old percolator, much more time consuming. It only produced one cup, instead of a whole pot, but his son had liked it, had taught him to like it, so he kept it up.
He sat quietly for a while, sipping and considering the day ahead.
He decided to focus his attention on the garden bed this day. Spring was coming on, and it would soon be time to put the seedlings into the ground. Already, they were growing big for their tray, and were only waiting for the last frost to pass. He put on his boots and went out to work.
It took time. The morning passed slowly as the old man pulled and trimmed and cleared, still it seemed that the sun moved more quickly than he did these days. He might have been faster if not for the periodic stops to peer out at the road. Any time a vehicle passed, his gaze was drawn away from the dirt. His hope never quite rose that the car would turn down his long drive, but he watched all the same. He would wave amiably, if it was a neighbor he knew.
Lunch was a quick and simple meal—cold meats and cheese sandwiched between two slices of white bread. Hot tea to help warm him back up, and then it was back out to work.
The afternoon passed much as the morning had done, although the sun shone a little more strongly. He took off the heaviest layer before he began to spade manure onto the cleared rows.
The chill returned when the sun climbed back down out of the sky. Before it had quite reached the horizon, the old man collected his tools into the shed, took his coat and retreated indoors. No sooner than he had closed the door against the coming night, he went to the lantern, topped up the oil in its well, and lit the wick. He settled the glass globe over the little flame, then returned it to the table. He glanced out the window, but it had grown too dark to make out the road.
He made dinner: fried chicken and boiled potatoes.
“I may go fishing tomorrow,” he announced to the empty plate and cup he had set out across the small kitchen table. They didn’t respond.
After he was finished eating, he carried the dirty dishes to the sink for washing. He stoppered the drain and set the hot water running to fill the basin. As it ran, he returned to the table to wipe away any crumbs he might have left. He collected the unused dishes and carried them to the cupboard.
He had cared for the garden and cared for the house, and once he had cared for himself—brushed his teeth, changed into nightclothes, spread ointment on his aching joints—he laid himself down in bed. Sleep was a long time coming. Once more, he awoke before dawn.
He rose, joints snapping, and dressed against the chill. He refilled the firebox, set the kettle to boiling, and blew out the lantern. After coffee, he went back to the garden beds. He worked them ‘til lunch, took his break to eat, then returned. Each time a car or a walker passed, he paused briefly, watched them pass him by. He did not go fishing.
The sun sank, and he returned to the house. He lit the lantern and made dinner. He ran the water for washing and cleared away the crumbs and unused plate and glass. His eyes stung a bit when he settled the glass on its shelf. He clenched the plate in his other hand.
A fit of emotion swelled up just then. He raised the plate over his head, ready to dash it against the wooden floor. He just managed to catch himself, take a breath, and place the dish gently in the cupboard. He closed the door with deliberate softness and continued to clean. When he tended to his own cleanliness, he washed the remainders of tears from his face.
The next day was Sunday. He still rose before dawn and filled the firebox. He still made coffee, but he did not go out to the garden to work. He put on his warmest sweater and thick socks, and went to the porch with a book and his pipe, though it was still too cold to be very comfortable there.
He lit the pipe and let curling tendrils of smoke drift above his head. He watched the road and the lane leading up to his house. It was nearly an hour before he picked up the book.
Some movement down near the road caught his eye. He lowered his book, prepared to wave at another passing neighbor.
It was a truck at the end of the drive. It stopped briefly while a small figure jumped out. The figure waved at the man driving, then turned and stepped onto the drive as the truck rumbled away.
The old man set aside the book and stood. He knew that gait. The small lonely figure had not gone three paces up the graveled drive before the old man was off the porch, arms upraised, a cry of welcome forming on his tongue.
Photo credit: Elle Hughes.
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