The unsteady light from a single hurricane lamp washed the walls of the little room in a sickly yellow. Its weak and desperate warmth lapped the darkness like the tiny waves that endlessly buffeted the shoreline of nearby Lake Bourbon. The chatter of choppy waters and the whisper of cold wind that brought them into being entered the room through a window. Their stirring agitated the now-dying flame in the lamp. With bowing motions and an almost inaudible popping sound, the dancer on the wick struggled to continue painting its golden hues upon the surfaces that surrounded it " but the kerosene was nearly gone. Soon only blackness and cold would inhabit the glass chimney which rose above the mess of books and papers cluttering the old writing desk on which it stood.
A glance at his wristwatch showed the room’s only occupant that the hour was long past midnight…but still a while before dawn. He ran a trembling hand through a full head of thin silvery hair and then scratched at the robust beard on his chin. With a sigh, he gathered together the papers from all over the desk, pulling some from books where they’d been used to mark important chapters, and others from beneath note pads or newspapers. He put them in order according to page numbers which he’d written in the corners and gently tapped the stack on the cleared writing surface a few times so as to align the edges. Then, bracing himself on the sides of the desk, he stood up. There was a creaking sound that came from bare floor boards beneath his unslippered feet, but he imagined it was his old back complaining as he put it to work. Slowly, he shuffled over to the door, leaving the flame to flicker and flutter through its final death throes.
Grandpa Jim, as he liked to be called, stepped out into the carpeted hallway, glad for a bit of warmth upon his soles. He headed to the right toward his bedroom, stack of papers in hand. Along the way he passed doorways leading to the living areas, music room, and kitchen of the aged lakeside manor where he’d spent the happiest years of his life. Each chamber called silently to him with sights and smells tied to memories, new and old. Midway down the hall, he approached a large wall mirror that faced the front entry. Catching site of his reflection, he chuckled a bit at his appearance. He looked like a decrepit old Santa Claus with a hunched back and a significantly thinner physique. A few steps later he reached the door to his bedroom. Slipping inside with all the stealth an old man could conjure up, he carefully shut it behind him and crept over to the antique dresser, listening for any change in the rhythmic breathing coming from the bed. Not wanting to disturb the slumbering form, barely visible in the darkness, he opened the top drawer carefully, trying not to rattle any of the silver-framed pictures which covered every inch of the dresser’s top. With the papers safely put away, and a soft snoring indicating he’d been sufficiently quiet, Jim paused for a minute to look at some of the happy images. In the absence of light, they all appeared black and white...but he remembered every moment in color. A smile crinkled his eyes and ruffled his whiskers. He was a lucky man.
“What are you doing up?” came a soft voice from behind him.
He didn’t reply right away, but moved over toward the bed. Standing beside her, looking at her familiar face in the moon’s glow, warm beads of moisture began to form at the corners of his eyes. He reached out a hand, pushed the covers away, and tenderly rubbed her back. She smiled.
“I couldn’t sleep, MindyLou,” he said in a whisper. “I wanted to get some writing done.”
“Come back to bed,” was the reply. “It’s too cold to be wandering about the house at this hour.”
Jim laughed out loud, his rich baritone timbre burning away the silence.
“I love you my dear,” he said, as he walked to the opposite side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet and climbed in next to her, locking one arm around her waist. “sometimes you have to get something written right when it hits you…or you lose it and it’s gone forever.”
“Did you put out that silly lamp?” she asked. “I don’t know why you insist on using that.”
“It relaxes me " feels more natural,” he said “Now go back to sleep.”
Smiling with contentment, Jim Thornton lay back on his pillow and closed his tired eyes, never to open them again. In another room of the house, a flame in a hurricane lamp sputtered and died.
The rising sun saw an eighty year-old woman in a light blue nightgown carefully opening her underwear drawer, so as not to rattle the countless framed photographs which adorned the dresser’s top. Nestled among her underclothes she found an envelope containing a hand painted card. Inside, scrawled in squiggly letters born of a quivering hand, were the words “Happy Aniversary, my dear MindyLou. I love you, and I know you love me too. We know it so well that, were one of us to embark on a journey without bidding the other farewell, no tears would need be shed over what we wish we could have said.”
Peering over the edge of the card, Mindy saw a jumble of papers wrapped together with coarse twine. The topmost page bore the title “My Sweet Days with Mindy Louise Thornton, by Grandpa Jim.” She lifted her gaze again to the photos and contemplated the crowded images. Blurred once by time, and now again by tears, fifty years of memories seemed to fade and run together. The feelings that her beloved companion had planted and cultivated in her, though, were as sharp and poignant as they’d ever been…and there was one, through five decades, that overshadowed all the rest. Happiness, she thought, was knowing how much your lover loved you, and that he, at every moment, felt your love as strongly.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
