Old Bones

OLD BONES

The alarm goes off even before sunlight creeps between the sill and the shade of my bedroom window. Bleary-eyed, I squint at the clock as paroxysms of coughing shake the bedframe enough to rattle my bones and nearly send them tumbling off the bed.

“Damn it.”

It’s seven o’clock, and even in the dark of the winter morning, it’s time to be about the chores.

I drag my bones down the stairs and set a fire, waiting until the logs glow a friendly umber to hang the kettle over it. My children wonder why I don’t use the new electric oven they bought me, but the last time I tried, I switched the knob the wrong way and nearly set fire to the kitchen towel on the counter.

After a cup of hot tea and a bit of stale biscuit, I tidy up and move into the parlor to rest a spell. I stoke the low fire that’s been going all night and settle my bones into the second-best chair. It’s getting more difficult to move about anymore, especially in the cold. My bones tell me my time is drawing near, and there doesn't seem to be much point in making an effort anymore.

Of course, they tell me a lot of things. All of it’s true.

Like the bones of Damian Culver, who tells me I’m going to hell for what I’ve done. He lived next door until I caught him with my wife. For years his bones rested under the oak tree where I caught them rutting like animals. She, I dumped in his basement. The police were heroic when they found her. They vowed never to stop hunting for the depraved man who took her from me.

I cried—even sent them Christmas cards for a while.

Then there’s old Mrs. Paine, who made good on her name every chance she got. She spent years under my roses, but the kids moved away, and I got lonely. Even an old gossip is better company than empty hours all alone. She tells me my parents never loved me.

Then there are the others. Kitty Moore from eighth grade who wouldn’t dance, Donnie Wilco who had to best me at everything I tried, Sheryl Gardener who I loved, but was cold and selfish. So many old bones, but the ache in my knees won’t let me gather any new ones.

So, I sit and rest and read and listen for the crunch of wheels on the gravel that warn me the kids are here to check on me, two grown vultures circling my will, as children are wont to do. My bones tell me they’re disappointed and afraid I’ll outlive them.

I would. Just out of spite.

But maybe, just maybe, there will be a knock at the door. Some fresh young thing who made the long trek down the private road, with pamphlets or perfume to sell.

After all, my bones could use some company.

The sun sinks lower in the sky and I catch a glimpse of a dust cloud moving towards the house in a long brown cloud. I should put my bones away, but I'm tired, and my legs feel so heavy.

Maybe it's the kids, come to check on their old man. Or the police, who finally pieced together decades of letters I sent them when I was bored and lonely.

Suddenly it doesn't seem to matter anymore. The light is low, the fire lower, and the cold has settled into me deeper than I've ever felt before.

The whispers from my bones are getting so much louder...

Liz Ransdell