I

 

It was a Monday in the Spring of 1954. The date was April 23, if you want to be exact about it, and even if you don’t, this is where I shall begin, because this is where I must begin if I’m to tell my tale in its entirety.

 

I was awakened to the morning by the penetrating warmth of light cast off by the rising eastern sun. My side of the bed is the left side, and it being closest to the window, is the first to be lighted up.

 

I lay staring at the ceiling, blinking the sleep from my eyes for a moment before my mind felt clear enough for speaking.

 

“Rise and shine darling, it’s time to greet a new day.”

 

My wife has never been an early riser so I didn’t expect she would be on this day. She quickly proved me right by grunting and rolling back over in bed.

 

I knew, from years of experience, that I wouldn’t be able to rouse her from her sleep, so I didn’t try. Instead, I sat up, swung my feet to the floor, and headed downstairs.

 

~~~~~

 

Our house is old. I inherited it upon my fathers death a few years after Mary and I were married. He took it over from his father, and one day, when I die, it will pass to my son, and if the good Lord wills it, he to his, and so on down the line. But that is then, and this is now, and right now, our house is old.

 

Not unlike a lot of other old houses, ours has its own set of noises. So when I heard the familiar squeaking sound of wood under foot coming from above, I knew that my Mary had reached the top step and was on her way down.

 

She really is quite an amazing woman. Smart. Kind. Beautiful. Funny. Everything anyone could possibly ever want from a spouse all rolled into a neat little package for your convenience. The reason as to why she chose me is still a mystery I’ve yet to unravel, but whatever the reason is, I’ll just count my blessings and enjoy it.

 

“Hello, buttercup. Did you sleep well?” I asked as I peered at her over my mug of the brown liquid I was calling coffee. “I’ve made a fresh pot, if you’d like some.”

 

I don’t make very good coffee (or anything else for that matter), but she drinks it all the same. Just one more reason that I love her.

 

“Thanks.” She smiled and moved to the counter to pour herself out a cup.

 

She sat down at the table and began skimming the newspaper.

 

“Would you look at that,” she said, peering up at me, “George Harlow died last night.”

 

“You don’t say. How’d it happen?” I asked.

 

“Heart attack. Died in his sleep.”

 

“Well, at least he didn’t suffer any, and that’s good.”

 

I picked up my mug of coffee and took a sip but as I was returning it to the table I spilled a little on my shirt. Luckily it had cooled a bit and so it wasn’t hot enough to scold me, yet something about that stain held my attention. I don’t know why; whether it was the color, or the size or shape of it I didn’t know, but for some reason my eyes lingered. It was almost a feeling of déjà vu. But just as soon as it began, it ended. My gaze relaxed and from the corner of my eye I caught site of the clock on the wall.

 

I jumped up, gave Mary a kiss, told her I was leaving for work, and headed out the door.