“Looks like
snow
tonight.”
She holds steamy mug
with both hands.
The scene from the
warm white-light
framed picture window
warns of winter’s
western approach.
Patches of pink
mingled with
blue, black.
Billowing clouds
reflect sun’s glow
as it crosses
beneath horizon.
“How much
do you think
will fall?”
“Forecast says six
to eighteen inches.”
He doesn’t bother
looking up
from book
when he speaks.
He has become
accustomed to this ritual.
He reads
his stories
as he sits
in comfortable
recliner kids
gifted him
upon retirement.
She stands
at window and watches
stories unfolding
on street
just steps
from their
cozy front room.
He listens
just
enough
to participate
just
enough
in dear wife’s
conversations.
Just enough.
“Enough
to cover
those weeds,
I hope.”
She lifts her chin
as she looks
at tousled track
of land next door.
Subtle hints of contempt
invade the normally
sweet strain of
her soothing voice.
“It makes
the rest
of the us
look so
so trashy.”
He is tempted
to say more,
but
what’s the point?
Expressing true thoughts
surely leads
to injured affections.
The remainder
of the evening
would be uncomfortably
cold
…but quiet.
Easier to
mumble approval
and continue
focusing
on his stories.
He tolerates
white noise
his wife provides
as mind escapes
into his stories
in his precious books.
“Lot
of snow.
I hope roads
are clear.
I hate the thought
of kids traveling
in bad weather.”
This time
he looks up
from book
to observe
winter scene
whirling
and swirling outside.
“They’ll be fine.
We’ll have
a great Christmas
together.”
Missed the first part? Check it out here: Three houses. Up next: Bless This Mess.