The day gently drew to a close, the western sky was burning in vermilion fire, a velveteen curtain falling gracefully to the black peaks on the horizon. I was resting in the porch swing after a hard day of doing nothing in particular, when I heard the front screen door rattle and the spring whine. She gracefully came into my peripheral vision, placed a wizened hand on my shoulder, and descended beside me like an autumn leaf. I patted her bare knee below the hem of her gown and nodded my head. She turned her’s to me and accented the sunset with her tender smile.

"Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Mother?" I placed my arm around her cold, thin back.

"It is at that," she agreed. "Yes, it is a fine evening, John."

We sat silently watching the ruddy sun shyly hide its face behind the mountains. Her hands were placed flat on her thighs, as she hunched in the cool breeze blowing from the slopes, as far away as a distant memory and a breeze the residue of a once powerful thought.

As the dusk grew, she began to fidget a little in my arm. I knew that she was thinking about Them and wondering if They would be coming soon. I hugged her closer, until she was nestled in my strong embrace.

Yes, Mother," I spoke her thoughts aloud. "They will be here soon."

She nodded against my side and patted me on my leg.

"I’m not afraid, John." She peered up at me, with her crinkled laughing eyes, warm with wisdom.

I also nodded and smiled, brushing her white hair with my callused fingers.

"I know you’re not, Mother."

She cautiously sighed in her distinctive way and she tucked her skinny, bony arm between the back of the swing and mine.

"Get the swing going, honey." I did, pushing back with my legs and letting go.

The creak of the rusty eyebolts sang a soulless melody along with the crickets and the wheeze of her breath.

"How could anyone ever be afraid of the angels of heaven, John?" She asked.

"Some are, Mother," I said. "Most aren’t."

"I’m not, John."

"I know, Mother."

The darkness calmly enveloped us in a comforting gloom, as we waited for the time to wind down.

"How old are you now, John." She asked me, perking up her head trying to find my eyes in the dimness.

"Why, Mother," I stopped to dredge my mind. "I believe that I am forty-eight years."

"Do you know how old I am, dear?"

I nodded, knowing that she couldn’t see me, but I knew she could feel my movement.

"Yes, Mother," I hugged her a little tighter to me. "You are seventy-three."

She again nodded her head against my side that was becoming slowly damp with her tears.

"It was a good ten years, John." She suddenly stiffened.

I looked up from her and stared into the night, then I caught the gleam of distant bobbing lights.

"They’re here, John." She started to stand up. I held her arm and guided her back down.

"We still have a few more minutes, Martha Mary," I said leaning my head down to hers. She lifted hers and I gave her my final kiss.

The insect songs seemed to die away. The night felt as if it was becoming a cocoon.

We clung to each other within the blanketing darkness, waiting for the light to finally come.

© 2007 Charles M. Baker III