 | Room Number: 34 Resident: Sally Connolly Certified SS Member Since: Jan 16, 2022 |
“The Change"
by Sally Connolly
by Sally Connolly
Hunched and leathery, the old man hovered over the fire, peering into a kettle. He stirred and tasted, stirred and tasted. He did not hear the knock at his door, but he leapt and turned when a loud bang slammed it open.
“Mercy!” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you for some time yet.”
“Oh, I think you knew I’d be here soon,” came a deep voice from under a hood dripping with snow and meltwater.
“Sit down. Have something hot to eat first – you must be soaked through.”
“Yes, yes. We have a little time,” said the visitor who draped his cloak near the fire where it dripped and sizzled on the hearth. He eased comfortably into a worn leather chair and closed his eyes, smiling at the aroma of bay leaves and broth. “What’s in your pot, old man?”
“My goodness, everything I could think of,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve cleaned out my larder for good. Carrots from a farm up the road, beef from the butcher, onions and potatoes from my garden. Herbs from my beloved’s kitchen pots so long long ago.” His aged eyes twinkled at her memory: her fingers planting and plucking, filling small jars with care.
“Yes, she was good to you. And you, you were good to her.”
“She filled an empty place in me,” the old man said. “I hadn’t known such love in all my life.”
“Your father,” said the visitor. “I didn’t much care for him. He was harsh with you.”
“And with my mother. He wore her out with his temper and demands. We feared that man but never did get away from him.”
The fire snapped as it hit a knot in the pine log. Its glow turned faces and furniture yellow-orange with its light. The old man picked up a fresh log with his gnarled fingers and tossed it onto the flame with a spray of bright sparks. The visitor moved his cloak a little further away, and watched his friend gather crockery and spoons.
“Something to drink? I have cold water from the well if you like,” said the aged man as he bent stiffly to set a small table. He dipped a ladle into the stew and tipped it into bowls.
“No, no – I‘ve had enough cold water for today,” laughed the visitor.
The two men blew on their spoons and ate in silence for a while. One watched the other carefully, noting his trembling hands, his cloudy eyes, his wrinkled face flushed from the steaming bowl.
“Regrets, old man?” asked the visitor.
“None,” was the answer. “I enjoyed my work. I gave my wife all the love my mother never had. We liked our neighbors, and were blessed with help from them when needed.”
“No children, though.” The visitor inhaled over his stew and savored its spicy warmth. A traveler, he seldom shared a lovingly cooked meal in anyone’s home. He was enjoying this cozy moment, this shared humanity.
“True, no children. I liked watching other’s young ones grow up. And they were some of the helpers, you know.”
Both bowls were emptied and refilled. The fire burned low. Night turned the windows into mirrors reflecting ghosts of the two men, heads bowed low over the meal, mouths reminiscing and pausing in companionable silence.
“The season is changing. The winter will be gone two days hence,” said the visitor. “I heard birdsong from the pines despite the snowfall.”
“Ah. I haven’t energy enough to face another spring. Planting, getting firewood in, fixing fences and rooftops,” the aged man sighed with weariness.
“It’s time, old man. The seasons have ended for you. Spring will smile on younger faces this year.”
“I’m ready. I’m filled up with years.” The old man smiled.
The visitor stood and wrapped himself in his toasty cloak. “Take my hand,” he said. “You have nothing to fear.”
At a touch, both men disappeared and the door closed softly. Embers from the fire glowed brightly for an instant and began to die until the last one, the very last one, brightened briefly and then, with a sigh, winked out.
©2022 Sally Connolly, presented by Live Free Live Rich Entertainment
“Mercy!” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you for some time yet.”
“Oh, I think you knew I’d be here soon,” came a deep voice from under a hood dripping with snow and meltwater.
“Sit down. Have something hot to eat first – you must be soaked through.”
“Yes, yes. We have a little time,” said the visitor who draped his cloak near the fire where it dripped and sizzled on the hearth. He eased comfortably into a worn leather chair and closed his eyes, smiling at the aroma of bay leaves and broth. “What’s in your pot, old man?”
“My goodness, everything I could think of,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve cleaned out my larder for good. Carrots from a farm up the road, beef from the butcher, onions and potatoes from my garden. Herbs from my beloved’s kitchen pots so long long ago.” His aged eyes twinkled at her memory: her fingers planting and plucking, filling small jars with care.
“Yes, she was good to you. And you, you were good to her.”
“She filled an empty place in me,” the old man said. “I hadn’t known such love in all my life.”
“Your father,” said the visitor. “I didn’t much care for him. He was harsh with you.”
“And with my mother. He wore her out with his temper and demands. We feared that man but never did get away from him.”
The fire snapped as it hit a knot in the pine log. Its glow turned faces and furniture yellow-orange with its light. The old man picked up a fresh log with his gnarled fingers and tossed it onto the flame with a spray of bright sparks. The visitor moved his cloak a little further away, and watched his friend gather crockery and spoons.
“Something to drink? I have cold water from the well if you like,” said the aged man as he bent stiffly to set a small table. He dipped a ladle into the stew and tipped it into bowls.
“No, no – I‘ve had enough cold water for today,” laughed the visitor.
The two men blew on their spoons and ate in silence for a while. One watched the other carefully, noting his trembling hands, his cloudy eyes, his wrinkled face flushed from the steaming bowl.
“Regrets, old man?” asked the visitor.
“None,” was the answer. “I enjoyed my work. I gave my wife all the love my mother never had. We liked our neighbors, and were blessed with help from them when needed.”
“No children, though.” The visitor inhaled over his stew and savored its spicy warmth. A traveler, he seldom shared a lovingly cooked meal in anyone’s home. He was enjoying this cozy moment, this shared humanity.
“True, no children. I liked watching other’s young ones grow up. And they were some of the helpers, you know.”
Both bowls were emptied and refilled. The fire burned low. Night turned the windows into mirrors reflecting ghosts of the two men, heads bowed low over the meal, mouths reminiscing and pausing in companionable silence.
“The season is changing. The winter will be gone two days hence,” said the visitor. “I heard birdsong from the pines despite the snowfall.”
“Ah. I haven’t energy enough to face another spring. Planting, getting firewood in, fixing fences and rooftops,” the aged man sighed with weariness.
“It’s time, old man. The seasons have ended for you. Spring will smile on younger faces this year.”
“I’m ready. I’m filled up with years.” The old man smiled.
The visitor stood and wrapped himself in his toasty cloak. “Take my hand,” he said. “You have nothing to fear.”
At a touch, both men disappeared and the door closed softly. Embers from the fire glowed brightly for an instant and began to die until the last one, the very last one, brightened briefly and then, with a sigh, winked out.
©2022 Sally Connolly, presented by Live Free Live Rich Entertainment
