The kitchen
cabinets were old, rough wood, dark with no finish, didn't close
correctly. No more lies to hide. The wind swept through the house at
all hours, western exposure and a cold soul. The will had been made,
mentally, for decades. The will to continue declining, direct
correlation. He sat in a chair in the dining room. There was never
silence for the trees whistling and slapping windows, the furnace
giving more effort than he would. No silence, but no words anymore.
No tears, but cracked dry skin striping his worn face. Sometimes he
thought to hum a tune, almost tried, until the air stopped just short
of his vocal cords and forced its way out of his dried nose. How long
could he go on. Not a question, but a statement of astonishment. How
long. His fat deposits depleted, his cheeks now sunk and skin wrapped
tight around his jaw. When a yawn forced its way out, it was like
pushing hands through plastic wrap.
The wind, the
trees, not whistling. No. They were crying. They cried his memories,
his regrets, his life petering out. The corners of his eyes, his
cheeks, his hands all cracked and red and burning. This is how he
knew he was alive. This is how he knew life. A constant pressure on
his chest, the breaths labored against the screaming of the trees,
the pounding on his windows. The cracked wood of his old lawn
furniture may have snapped, could have been what cracked the glass,
what didn't startle him in the least. He just closed his eyes,
squeezed them gently and caused tiny tremors through his head, his
ears, down his body. The memories, the regrets, the pain he lived
with, all trapped behind those cataracts. A child's whimper came from
deep within, just under his ribs, and scorned the tremors away.
Gentle sobs of breath, still no tears, but it pulled his jaw, caused
more pain. He, unto himself, ad nauseam, until finally he fell from
his chair, onto the floor. Just like that, bliss, no more wind.
