Persistence

An old man sat alone on the eroded wood stairs of his back porch every evening. He brought with him a glass bottle of cheap liquor and a new drinking cup each time. Decades of life showed on his face and hands. The cottage they once shared their dreams and aspirations, has turned into a prison of neglect and regret. Had he been more diligent in her treatment, more understanding of her passions, he could’ve seen her smile more beyond his dreams.

Memories flood the old man’s heart each morning, as he would picture her leaning on the windowsill of the kitchen, shutting her eyes, and smelling the morning dew. Each day around two, as she would dance through her garden of tomatoes and bell peppers, no matter how difficult her balance would become. And every night, as they would hold one another sitting on the same wood stairs, looking up at the velvet night, laughing as bats and owls would glide through the sky like fish in the sea. Her skin, became as wrinkly as his, but it was somehow softer, kinder, and freer than his would ever be. She was his muse in every sense of the definition, he bore laughter as if it was always inside of him. Her ideas sparked a curiosity that he believed was now crushed by the mundane parts of life.

Clutching his whiskey glass, the old man in his black flannel jacket and old blue jeans, sat up straighter, looking into the darkness. The buzz of the strong dark liquid filled his mind with television static, and he hurled the glass into the neighboring barn wall. The flutter of wings and scared squirrels rustled away, and the old man watched the whiskey trickle down into the yellow grass. He clutched his shoulder and winced in pain as he slowly stood up, ignoring the signs that something was wrong. Turning his back, he struggled up the three stairs and turned off the flickering porch light, only to be stunned by a brief screeching noise.

“What the hell?” He grunted out in his rough accent and turning, he flicked the light back on.

The old man couldn’t see anything past his creation of whiskey splatter or the collection of broken cups piling up on the dead grass. Taking a stride towards the barn he squinted his eyes as they slid over the backyard. There, he spotted it, glowing eyes glaring back with an eerie presence, only about 3 yards away. An owl has decided to perch on the top of the small barn roof. The old man huffed and threw his hands up yelling at the owl in strange noises, the open whisky bottle splashing onto his head. But the owl did not move. He dropped his arms while the television static reaching his weak grasp and he dropped the bottle into the porch. The shatter echoed into the stars, and yet, the owl did not move. The old man turned to head inside, too drunk to be concerned.

Once inside, the old man attempted to lock the door, but instead leaned his bodyweight on the frame. His figure dragging him down and the lack of lights in the kitchen made him sleepy. The rotten bouquet from six months ago still sat on the dining table in the corner, the mold and rot a perfect accessory. The old man had begun leaving the dust and dirt of everyday living unkept, almost immediately after she died. The tile floor in its state right now would’ve driven her crazy but the old man still moved to the floor, allowing his eyelids to close.

The next morning the old man awoke on the same floor, his back and knees screaming in protest of his midnight decision. The thick dust that covered the floor should have been sufficient in padding, and the old man wished he could’ve slept upon the dust for a thousand years. His head throbbed in that familiar hung over torture, and the morning suffocated the small space as it ached to seep through the closed curtains. Again, like all the nights before, he hoisted himself up and completed his morning routine. Unable to let himself live, but unable to let himself go, for her sake he still drank water in the morning and would eat a slice of toast or two. Grabbing the pan and broom he made his way to the porch to sweep up the smashed pieces of bottle.

The old man suddenly recalled the strange owl from the night before, but looking up at the roof, there was no owl in sight.

After collecting the glass and around the small house, throwing the shards into the bin, he finally allowed himself to look at the side of the barn. The side with dried liquor, the side with their wedding picture painted on it, the side that hurts. The old man spends his days waiting for night, when he promised her, he would wait until it’s an acceptable time to start drinking. She would poke fun at his drinking habits, as he would commonly say, “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

That night, the old man was back outside on the wooden porch steps, mumbling to himself about his dead lover. The bouquet from her funeral, continuingly rotting on the table inside and a new bottle and glass at his feet. The wedding scene was painted by his wife as she recalled it, not necessarily how it happened. He was never bothered that she added a rainbow in the forest or a star in his smile. But now in the darkness of night, and the darkness of the running whisky ruining the old paint, it was a constant reminder of what could’ve been. Just then, the small screech from above the painting startled him again. A barn owl perched in the same spot.

The old man assumed it was the same creature for he leaned down and picking up a pebble, flung it at the bird. It bounced off and shifting its eyes its body did not move. It felt as if the owl was watching the old man. Judging him.

“You got something to say?”

The owl did not move, and instead screeched in response, causing the old man to lift his glass from the stair and chuck it at the owl, missing completely. Instead of being scared away, the owl lifted its massive wings and glided down to meet the old man directly across from him. Landing in the dead grass, careful not to cut itself on the glass shards, the owl would not take its eyes off the mans. Still, he tilted his head, curious, and reached his left hand out to the animal.

The tension was unusual, yet moving and the old man felt his heart begin to beat again.

Just then the owl snipped at the old man’s fingers and bit down hard, causing him to cuss out the creature, screaming pyrophanites the bird would never understand. His ring and middle finger were sliced at the tips, bleeding, and stinging. He kicked the new bottle of whisky towards the owl and still missed, while he made his way back inside to bandage his new injury.

For the next month the same night owl visited the old man in the glass shards, not getting any closer and always standing its ground. The old man had stopped throwing things at the bird and had instead become curious of what it wanted. He offered food, water, and dead mice. He opened his garage for the first time since and even built a perch for it. He filled his days by completing research in favor of the nocturnal animal. One night, the old man had not been drunk in a few weeks and was stationed at his spot on the wooden stairs, waiting for the owl to come.

After a few hours of watching the bats, he realized he had not explored the night sky since his wife died. The painting on the barn had started to peel in large sections and it no longer looked beautiful. The memories of her filled him with a new sense of longing, he thought of the night owl and how much she would’ve adored seeing the creature. If not that, then the laughter she would’ve produced in seeing the owl bite him. Smiling, the old man got up from the stairs and made his way to the barn, crunching through the glass, he began peeling the paint off the barn of their wedding scene from decades ago.

The owl did not return, and the old man never learned what it wanted from him. But the next morning he opened the curtains in the kitchen.