Winter was not marked this year; the snows of January never came. They’d watch out their front windows looking for hope amongst the gray and dreary days only to find a nakedness, a barren land where porchlights burned out long ago. And people, people gave up on a notion that God would see them through. Oh ye of little faith.
The older couple sat side by side with a quilt wrapped ’round them and his hand in hers. They were waiting for the day to end, evening to fall, a brown sun to fall from the sky and a hollow moon to rise. They waited. The same as the day before and the day before that. This was their religion. They depended on this exercise. It was just as important as eating. They didn’t look at each other. They looked at the sky. And, waited.
Their kids had long left. Started lives of their own. A son in Chicago trading stocks and bonds, while the daughter raised her own kids in Minneapolis. They would talk every once in awhile about how life was going. The grandkids would tell em they were loved. Seldom would the son and daughter say those words, but, the grandkids did. They found this to be interesting. Where did they learn of love from? they would ponder. No telling. No telling.
They both were not overly affectionate parents. Rarely did they hug or kiss their children. Both wished they had that ability, but, it was never there. Never in their grasp to reach out to the children. They would reach out for each other in private. All emotions were saved for closed places. That’s how their parents were. And, their parents before them. Generations of stoicism on both sides. Feelings kept intact.
In silence they sat there. Waiting for another day to be done. Another day of nothing done of any consequence. Just the slow steady pace of life winding down.
Steps were taken. They’d walk down the hall with each other. Tell one another goodnight. Close their doors behind them. And, wait for another day.