The girl -
She
was 15, tall and thin, growing up too fast. It was a cool morning in
Maine. August, but still cool in the morning. She picked out a red
and black checkered flannel shirt from the closet in the Soldier
room. It had been her grandfather's and had been in the closet all
winter. It was damp from the basement below the closet but not
moldy. She sniffed the arm and tried to remember her grandfather's
smell. It had been too long and she couldn't smell him but she tried
to believe she could. Everyone else in the old house was still
asleep so she quietly slipped out the back door, closing it gently so
it wouldn't slam. She was barefoot and the grass was wet and heavy
with dew. Some bird on the bay made a strange lonely, singular cry.
That's a Loon, she thought. Her grandfather and her father had told
her that years ago.
The daughter -
The
small, black and white checkered flannel shirt was too thick and too
warm for August but she always wore it in the garden because that was
where her father wore it when he was alive and still able to work
outside. She remembered the years when he seemed possessed by the
garden and the yard, working late into the evening until her mother
called him in for dinner. Whacking the weeds to keep them back, out
of the yard, cutting and hacking everything as if to gain some
control and restore order. She saw the signs of dementia early but
it took 10 years to take him completely. She fought along side him
for all those years but they both lost. Now, she had his flannel
shirt and it still smelled like him, she believed.
The son -
As
soon as the August sun reddened the sky over Islesboro, Jake would
open his eyes, with some effort as he was still tired and a little
rough after last nights late dinner and drinks by the fire pit,
roasting marshmallows for the kids and drinking another ice cold
beer. The sun warmed his face and was the best alarm clock on the
Maine coast. He got up and walked to the closet for a shirt. Nelle
had stocked up on warm flannel shirts at the Goodwill in Rockland and
kept them in the closet in the Yellow House for summer family and
guests. He picked out a faded brown and purple one, soft as a
chamois, and put it on as he walked to the kitchen. After he made
coffee, he grabbed his rod and headed for the dock. The tide was
wrong but it didn't matter. He might still catch and release a few
mackerel before breakfast.
Big Red - husband, father, grandfather,
He
was cold again. August in Maine but to him it was always cold,
everywhere. He was wearing his long johns and opened his eyes but
only saw the ceiling. White, empty. He reached out his left hand as
he did every morning for the past 60 years to find Martha. She was
there. Asleep and snoring gently even though the rising sun was
bright on her face. He got up slowly, put his feet on the cold, hard,
wooden floor and shivered. The rug was not there so he walked to the
dresser and got out a pair of socks. The closet door was open but
there was no light and he did not want to turn one on so he reached
in and felt around for a shirt. A warm shirt, like flannel, but a
thick one to keep him warm. There. He had one and walked slowly to
the bathroom, closed the door, pulled down on the string to light the
room and looked at the shirt as if he had never seen it before.
Black and white checked, thick flannel and warm. He put it on and
walked into the living room and sat on the old, red couch,
scratching the left arm of the couch as he waited for Martha to get
up and fix his breakfast.
Tom
Crowley
August
11, 2016
Lincolnville
Beach, Maine
