Blogging · Fiction · stories

The key over the door…


“Come on by, whenever”. She used to say.

She had an old wood frame house on the edge of town, which looked old. Older, if she wasn’t there, and needing a good coat of paint.

There was a rocking chair on the porch, weathered boards, needing paint, but only when she wasn’t there.

I used to sit in that chair, and watch the day roll on by. “Creak. Creak.” It too needed a good tightening of the screws, or a bit of oil on those places that missed her. Like I did, but not when she was around, then it was perfect.

I felt around for the key over the door. Sometimes, it was under the potted plant. Dead, or nearly so, with no distinguishing characteristics whatsoever. Until she was there, that is.

Drab colors. Drab life. Nowhere to go, All day to get there. Until she came home again, that is.

“Where should we love today?” She had a way with words, and a way with me as well. We didn’t need to go anywhere, when she was at home, but we did all the same.

I sat in her rocking chair, with her on my lap. I missed the creaking, sometimes, but mostly not. The plant needed watering, and the porch shined like it were new. I felt as if I had just fallen in love with her, like it was the first time that we met, like when we came to this house the first time, like when night became day, became night again.

When she went away, I started feeling old again. Aches and pains, a few more grey hairs than last time. I needed a good coat of paint, and a drop of oil, here and there, but not when we were together. She had a way of making me forget my age, which was otherwise good at reminding me, when she wasn’t at home.

The house screamed of want. Want for the coat of paint. Want for the fixing and the nailing. Want for the heart and the soul, of the young and the vibrant, want of the laughter and loving attention.

As did I……….