Death dropped by and sat on the porch
in the midafternoon as the supple chill morning of May nipped the bud of spring,
opened from the bosom of the seed to the shirt line of the petal, and blossomed
to the advent of sunrays. He sipped tea
gingerly as he swayed, creaking the rusted plates of the swing in tempo to the
chimes placed intermittently on the veranda, each column copied white and
caught with the grey tufts of dust brought present by the Midwestern wind.
Warmth brewed over the battered wood
when afternoon in its peak shooed away the shadow, empting just the speckled
dark glint from the posts surrounding. Death’s
rustic cloud hovered over the bridge game between Mother and the Lady, who cackled
and cooed at the rise and fall of partnerships. Mother shuffled the deck as the Lady lifted
her delicate hand, feebly pouring the milk into her of cup to procure not chipping
the other side where the artisan painted the rose.
A hummingbird fluttered in rarity to
the oval bush, brushing the hems of its wings to the hue resembling the blades
of grass after the chopping of the mower, newly brightened and refined in green
by chipping at the unwanted pieces. The
blue body of the bird nestled in pause to catch a berry, but withdrew with
haste at the sight of Death; a universal language in an unspoken dialect. So,
the miniscule bird twittered away before all of Mother’s cards were dealt.
The lady’s lavender gown began to
crease while the white heat bore on her
shoulder. She opened her fan, her fingers dewing the end from the perspiration,
and waved for relief. She suddenly snapped the end together in fold. Mother
jumped with a start and paused to look at her grievance, but gave it no consequence
to her illusion of indifference. She noted the Lady’s impermanence of yellowing
flesh, hastily powdered such a brilliant pale to mask the appearance that life
gives when it has found an unreasonable suitor in the midst of the body. Mother’s
permed mousy brunette up-do flopped from either side while she shook her head
and uttered one sigh to Death before picking her cards back up to resume the.
The shadow of evening recaptured the
lawn into a grey and inched onto the porch before settling on the maudlin mauve
doorway as the Lady folded her cards in gesture of retreat to an almost match
game. She knew that stars would trickle
down the setting and burst in the break of dawn before Mother would unhinge a
game, so it was best to settle for the evening.
Death hunkered over the table, observing intently as the two finished
the last of their tea. The lady scooped the cards into her lace covered lap and
stacked them neatly on the table before standing with her mother to adjourn in
the kitchen.
As the women arose to take heed of
the handle and push into the drawing room, the effects laden with the aroma of
a crisp sovereign night with the hint of a bakery just down the corner, they
saw death in line for entrance; paused for invitation. Yet, how indelicately a visitor becomes an
intruder from porch to doorway; the same plane in different character. The
necessity of familiarity in the appearance of a house turns captive from the
privacy of the home. They knew this now stranger;
they had entertained him all day. Death was a gentleman. So, as the mother took
clasp of the lady’s shrinking hand and squeezed tightly in reassurance, she
offered Death a toe into the living area.
Death swooped past both of them and clunked
upstairs, knocking before entering the Father’s bedside. When the Father saw
who it was, he smiled, and said, “Hello, I have been expecting you all day.”
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