Joints ache and wind shrieks through the gaps in the old window as the man rocks in the chair. There’s a point in the arc where the rocker clicks forward on the rough sawn boards and then requires a small push back to restart the pattern.

The logs emit light and some heat but the fire is young. The day grows older and the man feels the darkness creep ever closer. The chair adjacent, now empty, is a painfully sweet memory of the love that once rocked in tandem. He reaches out and taps the front of the chair causing it to move, imagining she was still there.

The kettle atop the wood stove whistles. Closing the glass door of the stove only dims the room slightly as he pours his tea. He dons a wool sweater and sits at the table near the window. He glances back at the chairs and then out the window and across the lake. The moon reflected on the water was especially large and colorful. The trees swayed to the south, directing the water’s ripple.  

Cup now in the sink, he lay on the couch, covered up with an extra blanket. The door to the bedroom was shut. There was no sleep to be found in that room without her. The only place he felt her presence became the entirety of the house.

In dream, he found himself in the forest. The air still, frozen, his breath a bright cloud by moonlight. Up ahead he could hear a turkey vocalizing. But, as he stepped toward it, he heard her call to him clearly from behind. Turning quickly, he ran toward the origin. The faster he ran, the darker the forest became, the more distant her voice.

There appeared to be some light in a clearing. With the last of his energy, he burst through the brush. A stone wall with a large gate blocked his path; unscalable, as far as he could see in either direction. He gripped the cold iron and peering through the bars, he saw her turn away. Despite his impassioned pleas, she faded into shadow.

His feet were freezing, he had pushed the blanket off them in the night. The increasing lumens and breeze through the leaky cabin roused him from his troubled sleep. Stretching, searching for the will to live another day, the man rose, drawing the blanket around him like a cape and checked the stove. A few remaining embers were enough to bring the stove back to life.

The pan was still in the sink, the previous day’s use left a niggling mess. Half clean, he brought it back to the stove to warm. The coop was built against the side of the house to block some of the wind and hold a modicum of heat in the winter. The two hens kept each other warmer during those long nights. Despite the one not laying anymore, he kept it for the company of the other. He gathered the one egg from the nesting box and cracked it on the edge of the pan.

He pulled the rocker a little closer to the stove as breakfast cooked, willing the heat to push the cold from his bones. Last night’s snow was thick. The trees glistened in the sun, their boughs low under the weight of the season. The air was still now, the world quiet except for the fire.

The pan found its way back to the sink and the old man began to tighten the straps of his snow shoes. A few layers filled the space under his jacket that muscles once did. His rabbit fur hat, soft and warm, made the coldest days pleasantly bearable. He took his recurve bow from the hook by the door and set off toward the lake.

He traced the shore until he found the trail which ascended into the hills. The pace of travel slowed but progress was steady.  Several switchbacks later the trail crested, ending in a small clearing. He looked down at the lake and across to the house then turned and walked into the tree line.

The snow lightly crunched under the wood and leather snow shoes. The man stopped, exhaled, and waited. Yes, there it was, just like in his dream. The turkey grew louder but he wished it wouldn’t. The sound vexed him, making him believe that he was about to hear her voice. He leaned against a tree, attempting to gain his composure.

Snow fell from the low branches as the turkey’s feathers brushed against them. It stood before him, staring. It was almost mocking; it’s sounds inextricably tied to his loss. He raised his bow thinking is would run but it didn’t. Nocking an arrow, he pulled back on the string.

The turkey approached, stopping five feet away and looked up at him. Its dark, lifeless eyes pierced his soul. Holding the tension of the bow was suddenly too much, pain radiated through his neck and arm. When he dropped the bow, he thought he heard a bell. From the ringing came her voice.

He turned to see the light through the trees. Swiftly his boots carried him through the green grass, the trees, and finally to the wall. The gate was open and he ran to catch up to her. The turkey nestled against the warm body to block the wind and drifting snow.

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“I will give thanks to the LORD because of his righteousness; I will sing the praises of the name of the LORD Most High.” -Psalm 7:17

-Drew OUT!