Lost Things

A Short, Short Story by Sharon Kirk Clifton

*

The needlework was a diversion, something to do while she awaited Death. She sat in her sewing rocker trying to force her gnarled fingers to manipulate the yarn free of a snarl. For the past hour, she had wrestled the crochet hook over, under, and around.

Her ramshackle house played evil tricks on her: a footfall on the porch, setting a warped board to creaking; the whine of the screen door being opened. Had Death arrived to escort her to her Maker’s reward? No. It was the house settling, she told herself. More than settling, the house was dying—moaning, groaning its way into the ground, splinter by rusty nail.

As the yarn slipped free of the tangle, she let her hands drop to her lap. She remembered the house as it had been when her Warren had carried his bride over the threshold. He hadn’t let her see inside the house until their wedding day, though he had worked on it the last six months of their betrothal.

Warren had kept the house the same butter yellow with dove-gray trim, applying a fresh coat every seven years right up until he suffered his heart attack twenty-eight years ago. Once he was gone, she didn’t care about anything, least of all the upkeep of the house. Neither did their children cherish the old homeplace. They were busy building their own lives elsewhere. So the paint faded and flaked, until all that was left was the weathered wood, looking like gray satin when the sun hit it just right.

“She's lost interest in living since she lost Warren,” the neighbors whispered, thinking she couldn’t hear, being old. Lost Warren. She never quite understood that phrase. Had she misplaced him, as she did so many things these days? Would she one day be putting a load of linens in the washing machine and find him curled up in the bottom of the wicker laundry basket?

“Oh, there you are, Warren,” would she say, stooping to help him stand. “I’ve been wondering where I put you.”

Lost Warren. She hadn’t lost Warren. Death had come calling for him.

Funny how one thought leads to another. Lost things. Just this morning, as she had prepared to crochet yet another dresser scarf, she spent nearly an hour searching for her spectacles, finally finding them on the kitchen counter next to the teapot. They had steamed up as she poured her Earl Grey, so she removed them.

A string of lost things threaded their way through her mind: lost keys, lost bills, lost lists, lost stockings, lost children.

Why didn’t the children ever visit or even call? Were they so busy that they had no time for even a moment’s conversation with their only living parent? This wasn’t the way she had imagined this time in her life back when she cradled them one by one in her arms and rocked them, crooning a lullaby in the same rocker she now occupied.

Lost dreams.

One child hadn’t lived. He had labored for this Earth’s breath two days, only to trade it for Celestial on the third. He was her first boy, her second child. A mother suffers when she loses a babe. But the hardest part was watching Warren agonize. He mourned with her, but there had been a private room of pain that he would not share. Resolutely, he kept that door shut and bolted.

Lost expectations.

Warren had deserted her. How dare he go on without her! Twenty-eight years alone, spent waiting. That was not how it was supposed to be. They had gone through hard times. That was a part of marriage. But they did it together. He was supposed to stay with her to the end. A real gentleman would have let her go first.

Lost dolls.

Some little girls aspire to be teachers. Others want to dance on a stage. But her one single aspiration was to be a wife and mother. She had owned only one doll and treated it as though it breathed, holding it securely and supporting its china head, turning scraps of cloth into doll clothes. Blue Eyes she had called it. Then her cousin from Kansas came to visit. The cousin bragged about having a room full of dolls back home, but she decided  she wanted Blue Eyes. Her whining tantrum had convinced the old woman’s mother to give the doll over. Though it would seem silly to others, the old woman still resented the loss of Blue Eyes so many years ago. Lost trust.

Lost loves.

Lost jobs.

Lost hopes.

Lost friends.

Lost pets.

Lost confidences.

Lost years.

Lost mittens.

Lost Warren.

Her reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door.


© 2007 Sharon Kirk Clifton
*I know. The picture has nothing whatsoever to do with the story. It's there because it's pretty.