I awake to the sound of my grandfather's old AM radio. The one he listened to Red Sox games on when I was a kid. Funny thing is, that radio has been gone for years; gone since before he died on the dock. It fell off his lobster boat and met a crackling demise at the bottom of the oily harbor. Its last breath as laborious as his, both to never be revived. It was never retrieved. Here now, somehow, in my room 1100 miles away, it sounds like a continuous scratch on a record: "End of days. End of days. End of days." It continues.

I fumble for my glasses on the nightstand. The ones with the cracked frames that will not last me a week. The right lens keeps popping out. I have been meaning to go to Costco and get them replaced, but money is tight and I push it off like an unwanted chore to the bottom of my list. I can see well enough to get by.

Glasses on cockeyed and wavering on the tip of my nose, I sit up and scan the room dizzily for sign of that forgotten radio. How can it be here? Am I dreaming still? I pinch my arm, an all too real feeling, and scan the room again. Not an antenna in sight, but the words keep broadcasting as if piped in from the universe. "End of days. End of days."

A flash behind my eyes takes me back somewhere between consciousness and dreaming - who was that child? What was she trying to tell me in the early hours of dawn as the sun was not quite up to rising. Her eyes were wide and black as peppercorns; empty and haunting with her misplaced smile. But, in a second flash the memory is gone and I sit bolt upright in despair. End of days.

It is true. I know it in my core. End of days. We are finished.

I try to shake it off. Nonsense. Anxiety. Too much wine last night, binge watching Netflix and grinding on things beyond my control. Stress caused by political turmoil and a disintegrating society. Web propaganda. Too much surfing and friending - reading ads as they flash by in pop-ups, making me question the very essence of my own being. A global warming of despair holds me. This is real.

"End of days. End of days..." Where is that damn radio?

I stumble out of bed, my too long pyjama bottoms, shredded, catching on my toe nail, tripping me, I stumble. I catch myself and spin around, thinking I might spot the phantom radio, catch it off guard. I snort a half laugh of digust and absurdity. What am I thinking?

It is true. End of days.

I stand very still. The radio stops. I listen. Nothing. The message has been delivered. I know now. Seven days for seven deeds. The house is silent.

My roommate must be asleep. That's all she does of late. Sleeps and watches TV from bed. Her depression has worsened this month, and I have no idea how to help her. I bring her junk food and try to pry her out of the house with promises of adventures, martinis and puppies and bike rides through the park, but she just sighs. "I don't want to. I'm fine. Let me sleep." But she is not fine. Does she know? Is this why she clings to her sheets like a snail to a moss covered rock?

Does anyone else know? Has it begun? Am I the last to hear? How did I --

Should I call my father? What would I say to him? "Dad, I'm not sure how I know, but we have seven days 'til it all ends. I don't even know how I know, but I know. I just know." How do I explain the radio? My 90 year old father, sharp as a tack and rugged enough to fight off the zombie hoard should it come crashing through his door, would surely think I am losing my mind. Unless he knows.

Surely if I know, he must. But how --

It is said that God created the Earth in seven days - is it God who will take it away? Is that what this is? The big universal joke of humanity. I sit. I cross my legs, pretzel style, a Kindergarten Yogi. I breathe in. I breathe out. I count seven breaths. Seven days. Not even time for ten plagues. I expect the locusts aren't coming. I close my eyes and picture the darkness. It is oddly peaceful, but I'm still breathing. What will it be like to no longer draw breath? Will the darkness feel the same? Will the darkness feel?

Seven days to destruction. Seven days to live. My eyes open. I jump up and fumble through my dresser drawer for the sacred box of contacts. I open it to reveal - exactly seven pairs of Dailies. Is this a joke? I open a left and a right, and without washing my hands place one in each eye. The world is clearly still here. The question is, what will I find beyond my front door?

It does not matter.

I have seven days to get home.

#kwpoole.net #theprose.com #challengeofthemonth

Simple, really

The connection of blocks with bumps

Perfect imperfections, linking one to the next by hard design

A tower or fortress may be built

Full on armor and amour

But there is no room for soft curves in this construction

The game to give, and give and give

To connect

To build and build

Room upon room, opening doors to everywhere

And nowhere.

A game of pretend

Not logic

Not skill

All this construction, year upon year

Binding us with bumps and corners

Rectangular love in primary colors, closing in on us

Closing out the world

Revealing the restrictions of secrecy

Unveiling truths we covered in plastic

Until one day there are no more pieces

We simply must...

Lego

#kwpoole.net

#theprosechallenge

She put it away. In an old hat box, pink and weathered, filled with photographs and her former mother in law’s lace trimmed handkerchiefs. With thoughts of a family passed on and passed, she encased it, all but embalming the fragile nature of it.

She was once full of the rhythm; full of dreams like a cedar hope chest brought to life. At that time, she would cry out to the world her passion for him, for expectations and a life celebrated. They embarked on adventures. She was the cool aunt. The one who traveled the world on a motorcycle. The one who saw things no other member of family would see.

And, then he was called up. He would leave for parts of the world unknown, without her. She would wait in patience and faith. Wait at the kitchen table. Her tea cup full and steaming. His coffee cup cold and empty, but at the ready. Waiting for word and wanting.

She dreamed and doubted. She paced until the wood floor was worn in a path of longing. She started to walk then. Miles upon miles along the roadside, she traveled the length of the island; then the width; then the circumference. The beat and the rhythm intensifying as it had when they made love. A new passion for it. A new life brought to light. Walking. Waiting. Wanting.

Neighbors thought she was losing it. Neighbor, what a strange word that was. They knew nothing of her though they sat in close proximity. Watching. Judging. Contemplating her like a curious mushroom in the woods. If they had to, they would nod with an occasional “Mornin’” thrown in, as if they momentarily forgot who they were addressing. But mostly they just regarded her. Never inviting her to do anything, never offering or asking to join her. Others lost their husbands and those same neighbors brought food and things of comfort, reminders that no one is alone. Yet she was, alone.

A solitary woman. Not a lonely woman. She knew with every pulse of it that he would come home. That he, and his would strike with strength, valor, courage and the will to exist. Hers spoke true to her with time and in the periodicity of its nature carried her through til his return.

The day was bright and unusual, November wind swelling, autumn sky casting her shadows towards winter. Yet Henrietta knew promise lay on that horizon. She awoke with an energy uncontainable and pulsing. Her walk vigorous, relentless in its stride. She traversed the path of habit with a new vision. Gerald was coming home.

The letter was brief, his chicken scratch hurriedly scrawled upon the “From the Desk of...” stationary; a Christmas present from his mother years in the lingering. He was never one to overuse words.

“Dear Hen,

Heading home. I’m not exactly a pretty sight. Took some shrapnel to the leg, but I can still ride. I think we’re due for an adventure.

Still yours with love,

Ger”

So, that was it. He was injured, but functional. She had no idea when he would arrive, and she was sure he wanted it that way. Gerald was not one for fanfare. He would slide back in to his life here as if he never left. As if he had not been facing battle for years on end. He was of clear mind and ready to ride. He was coming home to collect her. He, as always knew what she needed; always returned just in time.

Henrietta spent the next few days cleaning the already pristine cottage they owned. Sweeping, mopping, beating the oriental rug until not a speck of dust wafted forth. She polished and ironed and readied their rooms. She tended to the garden, each plant and pot and flower bed relieved of withering or unwanted growth. But, most of all, she walked. The stride confused her neighbors, who thought perhaps this time she truly had gone off the deep end, as she called out an out of character: “Good morning,” or “Good afternoon!” A lilt in her movement quite alien. They waved with gaping mouths and raised eyebrows. She smiled, but the smile was for him not them.

Her breast rose with the breath and strength of a woman half her age. She sailed through the tides of sunrise and set, until the familiar boots measured the length of the front porch. He was home.

Gerald collected her in his arms without words, for words could not measure the passion of action. He held her and their hearts beat together in the time of all the time between. Not a moment had passed, not an hour lost, they picked up as if they had never left off. He pushed her back and soaked all that her eyes had to offer. He kissed her with the thousand kisses of days, months and years. He took her hand and together they climbed the stairs without a word.

The cadence of their love held the room with new hope. Love was made. Laughter returned. The moments steadied with the metronome of welcomed routine. They spent the hours planning and packing and taking each other in.

This was Friday. “Nothing should ever be planned on a Friday,” Henrietta’s father told her this often as a child. When she asked him why, he grimaced. “Nothing good ever came from a Friday plan.” She remembered thinking how silly that was, and now she delighted in the plans she and her husband laid out on the Friday of his return. The adventure to ride up the coast of Maine and head towards Canada, a break from home and Country. It would be chilly in the morning and evening, but they had weathered worse. The crisp fall air beckoned them with the promise of apples, pumpkins and flurries.

They would leave on Sunday, when most people were at church. Word would be out by then. Gerald home from war, wounded and recognized. A prayer would be said for them, mainly out of guilt; guilt of not “being there” for her. For God and Church expect more from neighbors, even if Henrietta did not. She pictured the neighbors knocking at the door, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the returned hero she harbored. Standing on the porch with hot dishes of casserole and warm pie. Waiting until impatience overcame the need for gossip and wonder of where they might have gone. Leaving a note jammed in the storm door:

″Stopped by with food! Sorry we missed you!”

They would be more than likely relieved. For what would come of such a visit? Unwanted company, talk of war and medicine - things most could not relate to - the elephant standing in the corner reminding them that not once had they stopped by when she was alone. And, though she did not truly care, in this moment the thought simmered inside her chest, giving way to a thump and a skip, a catch of breath til it steadied again. Her right hand unconsciously traveling over her heart, as if smoothing a wrinkle in her blouse.

Gerald regarded her, as if to ask, but no words passed between them, just a nod of confidence and recognition. She smoothed her pant legs consciously thinking this would make light of the moment. He smiled that slight side smile, letting her know, with just a wink in his lip, that he was on to her. She breathed in deeply and smiled back.

Saturday, the packing done, and all in order, they read quietly in the sitting room. She packed ham and cheese sandwiches on thin white bread and wrapped them carefully in waxed paper. She filled a thermos with cranberry juice placing the items in a small basket, along with a blanket of her own sewing. She reached far into a high cupboard and located the box of Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies she had saved for him all these months. Henrietta knew the way to her man’s heart.

Gerald entered the kitchen, wondering why lunch preparation began at eleven in the morning. Seeing the basket his eyes lit up. He grabbed a sweater for himself and his bride and they slid out the back door to the path in the woods. Walking hand in hand they chatted and laughed their way up the hill, past brush and marshy grass, upwards where the trees were taller, creating a canopy over the path. When they reached the top he helped her to lay out the blanket.

Henrietta told him of her walks and the days spent missing him. She told him of her dreams for when he arrived home, and how her heart soared when she received his letter. She told him of neighbors bringing food to the families of fallen and returned soldiers. She did not tell him of her loneliness, nor that no one came to visit her. He did not ask. He knew. His heart beat with love for her strength and faith. It pulsed with sadness for her loneliness. As he listened to his wife, he vowed to himself he would never leave her again.

The day was brilliant. The island laid out beneath them from the peak of Parson’s Hill. The water glistening, shimmering out past the land. He felt he had all he needed right in that moment. Henrietta saw her husband as bright and vibrant as the view they shared. She was awestruck by his presence in the way one might feel at the sighting of an angel. She shook her head, but could not shake the feeling that this might not be real.

The wax paper reminded her of childhood, as she unwrapped the sandwiches and plated them on the blanket. She had never been able to bring herself to buy plastic wrap, it seemed so unnatural. She poured cups of juice and placed the cookies strategically out of reach but in Gerald’s sightline. His eyes pleaded, but she handed him his sandwich first. The ham was salty, the American Cheese just creamy enough to compliment it, and the juice slipped saucily down her throat reminding her that she was a girl of simple pleasures. She had all she needed in that moment, and so much more to come.

The cookies filled the air with mint and cocoa. Henrietta ate five. She could not remember the last time she ate five cookies. Gerald ate the rest of the sleeve, and handed her the box. They would save the rest for the road trip.

They finished and she packed away the remnants in the basket. Gerald watched her, smiling lazily in the afternoon sun. He told her then. He told her of the mine field. The man he saved. The ones he lost. The pain of the shrapnel and its constant reminder of all he had seen. He spoke softly, carefully, thoughtfully, and yet the sparkle never left his eyes. The measure of his words matched her breathing, and she listened taking him in. All of him. When he finished, Gerald reached into his pocket and handed her his heart. Purple and gold, a ribbon short and textured, it was heavier than she expected. She held it to her own heart and his hand in hers. There were no words...

The couple descended the path with quiet joy of the day and anticipation of the adventure morning would bring. The evening was spent reading and as they climbed into bed Henrietta was filled with the peace that comes in the comfort of familiarity. She kissed her husband and closed her eyes to a deep sleep; one she thought was long forgotten.

Henrietta woke early with the sun. Gerald was sleeping, his chest rising and falling in sync with his pulse. She watched him for a minute, rested her head on his chest to hear him. He did not stir, but steadily slept; breath in, breath out. She carefully crawled out from beneath the bed covers and readied herself, then breakfast. The bacon sizzled, the eggs popped, coffee and toast wafted up the stairs to Gerald who stirred.

She could measure his pleasure by the width of his grin and the speed of his stride as he bounded down the stairs - like a teenager - she thought. It pleased her to no end. She piled the meal on his plate, extra butter for his toast, and sat watching him wolf it down.

She sipped her tea as she washed the dishes, Gerald outside loading the motorcycle bags with their belongings. The church bells rang as she watched him from the kitchen sink window. He danced a bit as he packed, reminding her of years past when they first bought the bike. She giggled in spite of herself, watching her middle aged husband, and in that moment he turned catching her staring through the window. He waved, kicked his heels in the air, spun around, took a bow and dropped dead.

Gerald’s ticker gave out cold and purple as his Air Force heart. It turned out it had a short ribbon as well. Forty-four years of beating and then a pause as long as the winding road that stretched out before her; Henrietta held her breath trying to stop the clock.

She blinked. She rubbed her eyes. She threw the sponge and ran out the back screen door in a wild frenzy. Loping like a wounded deer running from a hunter, but she was running toward the gun. Her husband. Her companion. Her love. Returned home only to return home.

The neighbors arrived in the days that followed. Not in the way she pictured. Oh, they brought casseroles and pies for days. They hung on the porch and in the living room, telling stories in whispered hushes about the fallen hero, about her Gerald. Until she could no longer bear the superficial condolences. She asked the pastor to relieve them of their civic duty. Please tell them to leave. He protested and then surrendered. He shepherded them out with an excuse of rest and meditation. He would check on her. She did not want him to.

In the months that followed, she joined the Cemetery Commission. A committee of two others. She was appointed the Superintendent; a title which held no meaning other than the right to complain a bit louder than anyone else who might show interest. Not much likelihood of that. She weeded and tended, though that was the groundskeeper’s job. She polished the stones and shells left by loved ones on grave tops. She visited Gerald every day: rain, sun, snow, wind be damned.

She never slept. Her heart raced in the night with what ifs and what wills. She began pacing the worn path of the floorboards. She walked miles around the island, not seeing her neighbors as she passed. If she heard their greetings, she only lifted a hand in recognition; a dazed wave.

Then with the years the beat slowed. The walks turned to drives and naps in the car by the water. The pauses began to lengthen in the silence of late afternoon sunlight, streaming across an empty kitchen table. Her tea cup steaming. His coffee cup cold and empty, waiting next to the box of Thin Mint cookies.

Each night she climbed the stairs clutching her heart, crawled into the empty bed the hat box below. She would carefully unwrap Gerald’s heart from the lace handkerchief and it close to hers hoping to feel its beat. In the morning she would return the medal to its safe keeping, wishing only for night to fall and the closeness she craved.

One morning, the light still dim with the dreams of night around the edges, her left hand holding their hearts close. His purple, hers worn and grey, side by side, she smiled as it pulsed and drew her last breath. Her right hand released the pink hat box with a soft thud.