David

The day was bitter cold on that late October morning when he awoke. Although the temperature was not but a few degrees below freezing, the pain ripping through his marrow and the icebergs bashing their way through his veins kept him huddled under the safety of his blankets for more time than he could afford. The incessant coughing and the blackened phlegm expunging itself from his lungs each and every morning told him it was time to put the plastic over the windows and prepare for a severe winter. He knew that come October this faux sickness overtook him every year and had come to learn that the coming season’s weather could be gauged by the severity of his cough. Although he didn’t quite believe in the voodoo of this magic, nonetheless it happened every year.

David lived in a cozy house. Well, snug enough on a warm fall day, but the first days of winter weather wracked his body, as he wasn’t accustomed to the bleak, death-like biting. He often found it funny that in only seven months since the snow had melted the winter before a person could so quickly forget how much they hated that season. The summer months, scorching, searing, and so near to what he imagined Death Valley would be like if he were brave enough ever to venture there, was in its extremes in the Northern valley he lived in. That burning season endured for far longer than could possibly keep one feeling comfortable, or human. And after the long persistent assault of the Southern sun, around the third week of September, the torturous ball of fire would finally relent, leaving David to revel in the glory of the cool breezes, lazy evenings on the deck with his favorite glass of chardonnay, and the crisp mornings that brought out the best in his mood.

Of course, this day wasn’t anything like any of those paradigm periods. This day, in all of its glory, was far bleaker. Pulling his withering body out of bed, David noticed the dirty floor, neglected, full of dead leaves and ageless dirt. The mental note to find that broom of his would leave his head as soon as it parked itself there, his head at times as flaky as his scalp. At one time, the dirt piles had been negligible. He had lived with a life-long companion for only half of his life. She had taken care of his every whim, been at his disposal, and never ignored a need. He, of course, reciprocated, being as old fashioned in his romance and treatment of her as she was in her servitude.

A glance out the window showed that the snow-line had crept its way down the hills as to be close enough to shiver from the powder with ones proverbial self. David’s legs reached the floor and gave a loud groan, almost as loud as the one the floor gave back to him. His house often spoke to him in this way, telling him it felt as old and worn out as he did on his one of his good days. David enjoyed the conversations and never left the house waiting for a reply. Whether it was his body that answered, or just his soft spoken voice, he could feel the pleasure the house emanated during these short and lonely conversations. His eyes fixed once more on the serenity of the landscape outside.

“Is it just that after these long years I’ve become so accustomed to the land and the house that we are one?” he wondered. The creeping snow preparing to engulf the valley floor reminding him that in the not so distant future he would near the closing stages of life, reach his finish line, and then recede back to where he had come from.

This, of course, was ludicrous speculation. To be sixty years old and believe that life was ending was not only nonsensical, but it displayed the exuberant outlook on life that David possessed. Naturally, with his companion now gone and the lackluster décor and state of his dwellings, it was not an unconventional train of thought for an aging feeble mind to have.

He quickly pulled his attention away from the window as to break the depressing thoughts and focus on something more comforting; his morning ritual. Ritual may have been a strong word, or an incorrect one in his mind. David had been doing the same thing every morning for the last umpteen years, ever since he could remember. The contentment from the simple act of relieving himself, showering, shaving, and dressing in the morning always helped to take his mind off of any troubles. This morning was no different than any of the rest. The steam from his shower rose from below, elevating into his nostrils, pushing aside anything that had built up the night before and cleared the way for the fresh October air to enter in. He finished up his shower in short order, unable to disregard the heights his mood had reached, even higher than usual, and stepped out of the tub to dry off. Normally, or as normal as could be conceivably believed by anyone but himself, he took the time shaving to talk to his wife. He didn’t say anything which might be construed as abnormal, he only talked to her as if she were there; fully knowing she had died many years before. This may have been the reason that he so enjoyed getting ready in the morning. This morning, though, something was different, not quite right.

Looking deep into the mirror David could see a few more grey hairs. It may have been better to convey this thought as he saw a few less brown hairs, but he was still holding on to what was left of his youth by not noticing that the number of darker hairs was now down into the double digits. The lines on his face, which seemed to have deepened overnight, were now craters and caverns stretching from his eyes to his ears, his nose and mouth to his nape. Had he really aged so terribly since yesterday morning? The elevated mood dropped considerably. His perplexed eyes stared back at him, the frown upon his face deepening the cracks to resemble chasms without bottom. His life, not surprisingly, hadn’t been an easy one. He had worked hard. He had worked extremely hard in fact, and the image staring back at him was not an ethereal being full of deceit and lies but only the face of what would have been expected from any individual with a history such as his. The soul looking intently back from the mirror though, was one full of energy and life; a soul with the face of a twenty-five year old and the mind of a mature twenty year old. David took comfort in this. Outward appearances not bothering him before would not start now.

He took his sorry self to the kitchen after dressing. The woodstove near the door was clearly an obscure resting place for such a vital piece in a ranch style dwelling. While the living room and bedrooms were not so far from the kitchen, they were nevertheless more like restaurant coolers in the colder months than living spaces. David made his way to the stack of wood sitting in waiting next to the stove and grabbed a few pieces of kindling to get things going. Although he did this same ceremony every morning when necessary, he did not feel as though it was a part of The Ritual, possibly because he took no pleasure in it. On his way to the refrigerator, he stole a glance out of the kitchen window, which faced the same picturesque white hills he had seen earlier from his room. The warming of the sun, the blessed sun, had pushed the snowline up only a few feet, but the retreat warmed David as much as it did the freshly revealed ground. His relation to the recoil of the snow from such a powerful foe was only one more reason the feelings he had this morning chilled his core and the now burning fire could brawl with, but never win. Again, David pulled his gaze away from the mesmerizing tranquility of the hills.

“What odd behavior,” he thought, “certainly not the usual me.”

He shook off the peculiar air clinging to his body and continued on to the refrigerator. The disappointment of the wastelands that lay inside upon opening overcame him like a gust of wind might overtake a browning leaf at this time of year.

“Dammit.”

He didn’t want to run to the store so early in the morning, but without any butter or margarine he wouldn’t be able to cook his habitual artery clogging bacon and eggs with toast. Shortly before her death Sally had made him vow to start taking care of himself. While he had, he just couldn’t give up his breakfast because other than the morning ritual, it was now about the only thing that kept him going all day. Skipping breakfast was like forgetting to breath for the day, his body shut itself down shortly after eleven and he was useless from then on; not that he did much lately anyway. A thought then occurred to him. He would smear the grease from the bacon on the toast. This would be a suitable replacement. As unhealthy as it was, his day wouldn’t be quite right without his toast. His mind ventured back to the day his wife had sat him down at the very kitchen table that faced his back at this moment.

“David, I know in all your stubbornness you won’t like what I’m about to say,” she started.

He knew that when she started out any exchange of words between the two of them that he wouldn’t. And she knew full well that to use this opening guaranteed that the little roadblocks would go up in the opening of his snail-like cochleae leaving him as deaf to her words as the wall might be, yet she started her “serious” talks with him in this manner anyway.

“David, I’m concerned.” Here we go. “I know you love me, and I know you want to be around for a long time and grow old with me, but I’m worried about your health.”

“Please, Sally, don’t start with this. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine now, but I can’t say that it will always be this way. You’ve led a hard life and with all the smoking you do, the drinking, and the food you put into that body of yours, I can’t say that you’ll be fine six months from now.”

The sirens started to wail as the miniature gates within his ears started to move into position. The glazed stare a sure sign that the gates would soon be beyond the point where they might be easily lifted again. “Listen, Sally, I’m fine, can we just leave it at that? There’s nothing wrong with me!” And with that the sirens stopped their call and the gates closed completely. David was now in his own world and heard little, if not nothing, of the conversation that followed. Occasionally he would nod his head, seeing that her mouth was still moving, but as to what she had said, he couldn’t recall.

As irony would have it, Sally died of heart disease not six months later. That dismal day was six years ago and he had a deep sense of remorse for his actions toward her ever since. She had only been trying to help and if he had listened, if he had only tried, she may have tried along with him and been here with him still today. The crackling of the bacon in the pan pulled him back to the present day. Flipping the bacon, his eyes welled up with salty solution and he began to cry. The unusual emotions of the day finally catching up with him in a torrent of water surging down his cheeks, catching in the cracks and crevices, and finally making their way to his shirt and the floor, both of which were quickly becoming saturated. Not knowing what was wrong with him today, David rapidly swallowed as hard as he dared, hoping he might choke back his tears, and headed to the door to get the morning paper. The speed at which his day was heading downhill since his morning ritual had apparently overtaken any sense he might have still possessed at his age, or so he thought. The fresh air at the door helped to stymie the explosion of emotion that had overtaken as quickly as it had come on. He snatched the paper off the porch as he remembered the greasy toast and now blackened eggs. Laying the plate on the table next to his newspaper he prepared a cup of pressed coffee as hurriedly as possible as cold eggs was near the top of his pet peeve list.

David sat down, his eggs in front of him, his coffee to the left, and the newspaper above the plate. The paper’s front page screamed of disaster in the world. Far off places were facing suicide bombers, warring factions starting civil movements, and fire and drought. His audible sigh displayed his content with the little world in which he lived. The biggest local event to grace the cover of the paper might be a coyote killing some chickens or a sheep, or even that the church was having a bake sale. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind the atrocities that happened in other parts of the world and his country. And with that thought, a blockage in an artery in his brain built up beyond its elastic properties and burst. Within a second, his vision blurred and was gone, his hearing following swiftly. The broken blood vessel sent blood gushing into the cavity, filling his head as rapidly as the gutters during a Northwest downpour. Before the signals of pain could pass through his receptors, David’s head dropped face forward into his plate of food. His body, still sitting hunched over in his chair, seemed to be praying, paying homage to the food that had actively played a part in his death.

Outside, the North winds came in with a flurry of force, bringing along with them the clouds that would eventually bring the snow, which would then slowly creep down the hillside to the valley below. The house, eager for conversation and reassurance when the wind blew, creaked and moaned under the pressure. With no soul inside to answer, the trees replied in perfect time, as though the two were old friends.