Golden

an excerpt

The days are short. Nights, long, frigid, etching frosty road maps on the windowpanes. Bones catch chill easily, brittle as the crackling logs on the hearth, snapping with every lick of the dancing flame, keeping Father Winter at bay.

The old man smiles, though the dull ache in his knees reminds him of the season with every small push of the rocker.

He knows every soft sound like he knows the resonance of his own breathing—short and shallow these days, quickly winded, especially in the icy air beyond the door.

Though his body betrays him, as of late, his hearing remains sharp now, as it was a lifetime ago, half a world away, lying in muddy barracks among brothers and comrades.

The kettle begins to blow its increasing whistle and he counts, one, two, three, and the whistle stops. Always three, not a second less, not one longer. The low gurgle of the boiling water over the Earl Grey tea leaves, soft squeeze of the tangerine wedge for a splash of citrus—he hates lemon. The melodic clinking of the dainty, perfectly polished silver spoon on bone China as she stirs in half a spoonful of dandelion honey.

He’ll only have her dandelion honey—none other. He picks the blooms for her, in the spring and again in autumn. An inch of stem, just exactly; no leaves, no roots, then he watches as she weaves her magic. An old family recipe, to be followed just so. A hundred turns to the left, seventy- five to the right, with the wooden spoon handed down from her grandmother, and hers before. Stained and worn smooth by time and many loving hands.

A flutter of scarlet at the window catches his eye as the languid shuffle on worn hardwood approaches. Another flutter, not quite so bright, joins the first as she reaches him, lowering his cup and saucer to the small table between their twin chairs.