Dusty road

 She sat alone at the kitchen table, which had always been her favorite place to watch out the window and see his truck coming up the dusty road. The table was set, and a stew was simmering. It was his favorite. When she heard the screen door squeak, she would get up, greet him with a kiss on his weathered face, and ask how his day was. He shrugged and said it was better now. He wasn't a man of many words, but his actions spoke volumes. He helped with the dishes, something he did after every meal, and she quit telling him he didn't have to do that. They had been together for too many years to remember, but he never forgot one anniversary, sending her favorite flowers from the florist whose son now runs things. There's is not a perfect marriage, but it withstood the hands of time until time ran out. She still sits at the kitchen window waiting for him to come up the dusty road, but she knows she will be eating alone now and doing the dishes, whispering you don't have to do this.

Mike 2024