Sunlight comes through the slightly open window. The pale blue curtains flutter as a breeze blows gently from the west. The sound of water dripping, dripping, dripping seems to fill the room.

Into all this he walks, "him" being a man with trembling, liver-spotted hands. The hands grip the walker as he makes his way across the floor, intent upon his goal. He is as good as bald, with only a few wild wisps of hair emanating from his skull. Watery blue eyes look out on the world from sunken sockets rimmed by purple and black. His name is Emmett.

Pausing at the sink, he grabs a chipped, nicotine-stained coffee mug. Originally white, it now has a carmel tinge. A fumbling hand grips the water spigot, letting the cool liquid fill the mug halfway. He rests his hands on the counter, and looks out– past the pale blue curtains, the all-but-leafless tree, the fence that separates his domain from the neighbors'. A small tear runs out of his left eye, making a glazed trail down the desert of his

"You've got a lot of cheek, coming here," the young man says. "She doesn't want to talk to you, Emmett." The speaker's name is David. He's leaning on a wooden-handled rake, peering at me with brown eyes that are squinting from the sun. "She says it's over, that you've pulled your last stunt." In the window, I can see her. The sun glinting off of her long brown hair, and a tell-tale sparkle shows that a tear is running down her

cheek. Emmett shakes his head slowly and takes a sip of his water, the mug shaking as it works its way up to his lips. His eyes shut, the only semblance of life being a quivering of his mouth. A noise from outside brings his eyes open, the laughter of

"I don't know if I want children, Emmett." Her voice is like silk, smoothing over the message of her words. God, she looks so beautiful! A mature beauty, removed from that girl crying in the window– but still glimpses of the girl can be seen. Her eyes can bore a hole into my mind and pick out whatever lies within. "I know you had your hopes up, but I... I ...I just don't know." I open my mouth to tell her that it's her that I want to be happy, her that I need to please, that, while I do want them, her happiness is more important than having

children. Running up and down the sidewalk playing some game of their own invention, no doubt. A deep breath, and Emmett goes to sit at the table. A yellowing table, it wobbles a bit as he places his hands on it as he sits down. A hand creeps over to a pack of non-filtered cigarettes. He removes one from the pack– a ritual that is almost as old as he is– taps it on the table once, twice, three times and places an end in his mouth. A gnarled thumb flicks out, snake-like, and a match-head flares into light. He puts the trembling match up to his cigarette and inhales deeply of the

"I don't like it when you smoke, Emmett." The words are delivered in a no-nonsense manner, the criticism made somehow less by her sweet voice. "You've dodged a bullet for this long, but the big C can pop up anytime." Addiction is hard to explain to those that aren't. I tell her that I'll give it a try, try to quit. "Ah, that's my guy," she says. "Never known you to back down from a challenge yet!" She moves closer, her mannerisms changed. "I'm sure I can find something for you to do with your mouth to take your mind off that nasty

smoke. The tears flow freely now, small rivers of salty liquid in the riverbed wrinkles of his face. He puts the cigarette in a chipped half-full ashtray, and his hands move up to cradle his wrinkled face. The injustice of it all. Always worried about him, then she was the one that was stricken by

"It's Cancer, Mr. Thompson. I'm sorry." The doctor's words hit me hard. She's never done anything to deserve this! Why couldn't it be me instead of her? "Is...is..is there anything you can do?" I start bawling when the doctor shakes his head. He's a good man– I knew his parents– and when he shakes his head, it's like she's gone already. She'd been sick for a while, but neither of us thought it would come to this. The word "inoperable" rings through my head as I think about our time together. The look on her face as she said "I do." The welcome home when I came back from Europe in ‘45. Sixty years together, now struck down by the rebellion of her own body. Even the word itself is ugly. Cancer. I can't think of anything else but my darling Maria, lying in her hospital bed, dying of

cancer. Emmett's shoulders shake as he struggles to control himself. Their marriage lasted through a World War, civil unrest, the growth of America, but couldn't survive a few malignant cells. His head raises and he stares at the ceiling. The blue eyes are pale behind the sheen of water, and he stands up slowly. Using the walls to support his aged frame, he makes his way slowly back to the bedroom that he shared with her all these years past. He goes to the closet and takes out his

"I love how you look in your uniform!" Her voice rings out over everything else at the train station. The laughter of couples reunited after being away so long, of children meeting the fathers they never knew, of a country greeting its wandering, conquering sons home from war. Her face is so beautiful when she smiles! I don't know how I lived without it these past three years. She takes my hands in hers, rough callouses from working in the War Production line at the auto factory on her hands, ingrained grime and callouses from sloughing through the fields of France and Germany on mine. A long, slow kiss later and she whispers to me with a wink, "Why don't we get home so you can get out of that

uniform. He begins to put it on, his hands trembling with emotion and age. Sixty years of having someone to talk to, to share every thought with. A warm body beside you at night. Someone to help with the rough times, to share the good times. When that is lost, what remains? Buckling on his military attire, on his belt hangs his

"I don't like guns," she says, picking up his clothes. "I wish you'd get rid of this." A smile crosses my face. "I didn't shoot anyone with that." "Do you think that matters? Enough guns have been fired these past few years. We don't need one around the house." After time, I convinced her to let me keep it as a keepsake of my time overseas. I brought enough trinkets back to fill a small shed, but when you spend months and months with something– constantly– an attachment forms. So in the end, she let me keep the

gun. He stands in front of the mirror, and for a split second the young man he once was can be seen. The dignity, the bearing of the old man imposed upon the smiling, hopeful features of youth. He salutes the image in the mirror.

The shot can be heard all over the street.

©Cameron Akers, 1999