Ruth

The old man walked slowly down the creaking basement steps. As one leathery hand gripped the wooden railing, the other caught tiny drops of coffee that spilled from a mug trembling in his grasp. This yearly ritual was painful, but an honored habit nonetheless. The silvery gray hairs that peppered his otherwise white hair were suggestive of his aching joints that had long since grown unaccustomed to the descending of the steep stairs. His face, wrinkled and wise, was still sweet with the brilliance of a young soul. Aside from creaking joints and decaying eyesight, Henry was healthy for his age. A stubborn man, he refused to move or sell his home. How could he, when this was the house his wife had loved so deeply? He smiled at the thought of her.

As he plunked down the final step, he paused to look around. Everything was just as she had left it. Memories of his wife came sudden and sweet; the sound of her lovely laughter and gentle voice flooded back into consciousness, bringing silent tears along with them. Her soft hands and sparkling eyes were still so vivid in his mind. He remembered the way her young red hair swished as she worked, her spine bending with the curvatures of her brushstrokes. She was an artist, though she never called herself one. Her art was not extraordinary, but to him, it was always perfect.

But these days he spent alone. After the accident, he spent each year's anniversary in the small seclusion of the basement studio, longing for some fragmentation of comfort amongst the unsold artwork and blank canvases. The room was alive with the emotion she had once poured into her work, painted by the outpouring of her being into something greater than herself. The lasting breath of her soul still clung to the crevices of the room. For Henry, today was especially emotional. His life had been long and painful but she was one of his truest joys. He loved her more than any explicit terms could ever have encompassed. Nothing made any sense without her. Alone with his thoughts, his wiry tears rolled slowly down, leaving small troughs in his old leathery cheeks. He let his body soften into a rugged red armchair that sagged on yellowed feet. He gazed at the paintings surrounding him. He found mirth in entertaining the thought that they might soon be together. She had always said that someday they would have eternity together. He never believed a word of it. But as pain found solace in the brokenness of his heart, he found himself speaking aloud to a god he wasn’t sure was even there. Softly, words escaped his lips until he was silent altogether.

Coffee in hand, lips parted softly, and tears stained on cheeks, he quietly slipped away.