Man in White

Today's self-imposed assignment:
Find a photograph and use it as inspiration for a brief story.I chose this picture from [daily dose of imagery] through my Google Reader account. Below is my story: "Man in White"

"I remember our wedding," the old man paused to reflect, "her lovely gown, my sweaty, shaking hands. I can't believe my nerves, fluttering like dry leaves on a windy November day."

He passed the Church and its skeletal steeples every day. The small loop through Camenta Park only took Albert a few minutes out of his way, minutes that seemed to have grown each lonely month since Virginia's passing. The extra steps were worth it, freshening the past and clearing some of the fog brought by age and solitude, so Albert sacrificed the energy for the sight their chapel and made his way home in quiet contemplation. He would always pause at the entrance and exit of Camenta to glance upward at the spires and their colorless peaks, or gaze reminiscently at a young couple beaming from archway through a flurry of confetti and lively cheers. Today, however, the steps remained empty but welcoming to wayward saints and weary sinners. With that thought, Albert chuckled, “Which am I?” he thought. “A good man too old to do good, or a fool too tried and tested to carry on?”

Losing Virginia had not been much of a surprise, but the shock tore at Albert’s heart; she had been his ballast, maintaining his everyday, shining his everynight. They were married as Poland fell to a psychopathic god clad in desolate olive and black, and their first few years subsisted with a promise to return. In good health, Albert kept his promise and life kept moving, days toward dreams, life toward death, and two toward one. The only movement left is from one to zero, and Albert had little strength left to stand in the way of sunset and could only wind his watch and wait to wind it again.

It hadn’t been much trouble and the clerk barely looked twice before accepting Albert’s money for a bundle of rope. Imagine if we understood the intent of others before they acted, not in retrospect when nothing could be done. We could help or hurt, but something would be different. Yet, star-crossed tragedy may lose its luster and life its flavor. Had he known, however, I doubt the clerk would have so quickly wished Albert a nice day. Just another body in line moving toward the exit, “Your change, and have a nice day.”

Once home, Albert sorted through his quiet parlor, then his living room, and finally, Virginia’s kitchen, cleaning and picking up the simple debris of widowhood. She loved the kitchen and barely allowed Albert entry, except to repair a dripping faucet or tighten a loose cabinet hinge. He would have cooked for her, but she was too enamored with the movement of energy from stove to food, the momentary instinct of knowing perfection before the rapid decline of over-cooking set in. Virginia kept each device and apparatus in her kitchen in perfect order, stainless and shining steel, bright and colorful enamel, robust and patinaed copper. Every inch and surface basked in her love and Albert had a difficult time inheriting the emotion tied into that room. He most often ordered a dinner, or dined-out alone, only using the microwave and coffee maker as Virginia allowed. The kitchen held most of Albert’s pain, as it had been Virginia’s room and still radiated her presence. The muffin pan still sat next to the oven as it had before the ambulance arrived; Albert could not return it to the pantry; could not touch it, could barely look at it through clear eyes.

He left the kitchen quickly, sat in his favorite armchair and scrawled a note in his arthritic script. Clutching the rope, Albert descended into his basement, tying off one solemn loop with thirteen bands. The rope tightened against the floor joists and Albert kicked softly.

Days later, Patrolman Angerona read Albert’s note quietly, “I miss my Ginnie,” and radioed dispatch.

Word Count: 648