The old man is alone and tired. He has lived in this house 45 years, the
house he and his wife built. Only three rooms at first, but as the years
passed they added rooms to accommodate their growing family. Together they
loved two healthy boys, watched them grow into two strong men, have families
of their own then move away. Together they watched houses being built around
them and wondered at the generations of children as they walked to the
school a few blocks away.
Everything that was important to him was in those 45 years. Now he
watches the children with eyes as dull and gray as the winter skies. He
moves painfully and slowly. Always cold, always tired, he shuffles from room
to room talking to himself, talking to Mildred and his boys. He knows his
children are grown and gone and some of the time he knows his wife is gone
too.
On good days he remembers clearly how she died. Almost twenty years
younger than he, she’d always been healthy and active. But just before her
65th birthday she began to feel tired all the time. A tiredness that went to
her bones she said, with sharp pains throughout her chest and back. After
several visits to doctors, an array of tests, and then a trip out of town to
see a specialist, she was diagnosed with inoperable cancer. The doctors said
in four to eight months she would be gone.
There are days when the old man remembers how they visited her relatives.
Mentally strong and practical, she came to grips with her impending death
much sooner than he. Saying good-bye to sisters and brothers, she gave them
each a small treasure. He questioned what she was leaving him, was he to be
left with only memories? They traveled to see their sons and
daughters-in-law and three grand-children. All this time Mildred was
peaceful and serene. Her faith and strength sustained them all.
By the time they returned home, her condition had gone from weariness to
exhaustion. Refusing all treatment except morphine, she was put into bed and
within a month she was gone. The old man was quiet and withdrawn at the
funeral. He couldn’t remember crying. His boys had never seen him cry and
they weren’t gong to see him crying now. Unable to feel or grieve, he turned
away from his children and friends. He wanted to be alone in the empty
house.
About two weeks after the funeral, as he sat in his chair during the
evening hours, he heard Mildred in the kitchen. Sounds of dinner being
prepared and the smells of food cooking drifted to him. At first, he heard
only vague snatches of sound, then words and sentences, clearer. Feeling
foolish, he went to the kitchen to see if she was there. Seeing nothing, he
shuffled back to this chair. Later in the same week he smelled food cooking
and knew he heard Mildred’s voice. Then she called him, "Norman, dinner’s
ready." He went into the kitchen again, but again only the empty, silent
room greeted him.
The old man talks to her now in his mind. For hours he talks to his wife
and his boys. He loses time, forgets the day, and forgets himself. The house
is cold and gray, but in his imagination it is warm and bright, with
children laughing, and his lovely Mildred is there. He feels peaceful
returning to that warm, safe place. Young and powerful again, he feels
Mildred’s warmth and smells the combination of perfume and soap she used.
She smiles and together they do the things they did so long ago. She
promises him they will be together always, but first there is something he
must do.
One day he grows cold sitting in his chair and calls to Mildred to bring
him his sweater. When she doesn’t come he goes to look for her. At first, he
feels confusion and then the electric jolt of panic surges through him as he
runs from room to room opening and shutting doors. Standing still, he calls
her name, "Millie, Millie," and then on to another room: the bedrooms, the
bathroom, and the kitchen. Stopping to catch his breath, he runs his hand
over his bald head, then he remembers, Mildred is dead. The grief, buried
for months, grips him now, causing his body to convulse with sobs. In his
pain, he doesn’t remember how long she has been dead, but he knows she’s
gone. Still standing in the doorway and sobbing as the certainty of it
settles in his mind, his attention is drawn to his left hand clutching and
releasing the front of his trousers. He feels cold and his pants are wet.
This has never happened before and the knowledge of what he has done scares
him as much as the panic he felt only moments before.
The full realization that Mildred was dead stayed with him only a few
days. Sitting in his chair and talking to Mildred, he remembered the flowers
that once grew in the front yard. Mildred tells him she would like it if he
took care of the flowers again. He recalls the bright colors: pink, red,
yellow, and white, all mixed together. Long ago he put in a cement walkway
from the porch steps to the sidewalk and built a low fence around the edge
of the property. He and Mildred worked together, for they loved flowers and
they planted lots of them. They were proud of their work, but looking at the
yard now he sees many weeds and rocks and only a few neglected geraniums.
Crawling on his hands and knees and digging in the dirt was the only way
he could work in the yard. He crawls and digs and talks to each plant and
weed, saying tender, gentle words to the geraniums and swearing at the
weeds. When finished with the yard work he goes into the house and talks to
Mildred. He tells her about the plants and weeds, the quality of the dirt
and the number of rocks he has stacked carefully in the northeast corner. On
some days he digs and plants only a foot or two, but with dogged
determination he works until the ground is planted solid from walkway to
fence on both sides of the yard. The crawling and the digging and the fresh
air strengthen him.
On one of his better days, wandering around outside, he finds an old
wooden crate behind the house. He marvels at how sturdy the old box is.
Holding it in front of him and turning it slowly around, he makes soft
sounds of admiration. Much good to throw away, he thinks, and satisfied it
is strong enough to hold his weight, he takes the box to the front of the
house and places it precisely in the middle of the walkway. Here he sits in
the mornings and watches the new generation of children parade slowly by on
their way to school. Some even smile at him and he feels happy and grateful
when a pretty girl smiles. He nods and raises his hand in a slow half-wave.
When school stops for the summer he misses them, but each day he goes out in
the yard and waters Mildred’s geraniums and sits on his wood crate in the
sun.
Sitting in the sun, admiring the profusion of geraniums swinging in the
breeze, he hears music, some soft strains of Beethoven he thinks. It seems
the flowers are singing. Flowers singing in celebration of the day. What a
strange idea. The warmth of the sun, the colors of the flowers, and the soft
sounds of music fill him. He knows what peace is. Gazing quietly at the
flowers, he knows Mildred will like the work he has done.
Looking up, he is surprised to see her standing at the front door. She
wears blue slacks and a fresh white blouse with a light blue sweater across
her shoulders. Rising slowly from his box, he walks toward her. He knows
this is more than his mind, but still he feels confused. As he moves closer,
he sees her more clearly, and the smile he loves. She is pleased with the
flowers. Holding out her hand she speaks to him, "Come Norman, it’s time to
go in." He takes her hand and together they walk through the threshold. The
last thing he remembers are flowers dancing in the sun.
