Open doors and songs

 Something startled him, waking him from his afternoon nap. It was probably his closest neighbor, three miles down the road, blowing up gopher holes again. Now that he was awake, there was no sense in wallowing in his sorrows. He might as well get started on the chores he had promised her he would complete, but never did before she left him alone and went to be with her maker.

He headed out to the chicken coop but stopped in his tracks when he thought he heard her voice in the distance calling to him. It was just a trick of the mind, and he wished it would stop. She was the churchgoer, not him, always quoting verses about things he should heed if he ever expected to go to heaven. He would hug her and tell her that he was too old and set in his ways to change anything about his beliefs. She would always respond by saying she'd pray for him in church as she walked down the dirt road to catch the bus. The bus, accompanied by a choir of ladies singing their hymns, whether they could sing or not.

It was one such Sunday that she never returned on that bus but instead was taken to the hospital, where she passed before he could get there to be by her side. He sat on the bed, holding her hand and seeing the toll that age had taken, along with all he had taken for granted. They had been together for sixty-four years, building a life and raising three children, all of whom had succeeded in their lives mainly due to her love and guidance, as well as the belief and power of prayer.

They buried her beneath the giant oak tree she loved so much, where its canopy shaded her and offered a view of the valley where she had run and played with the children. He could picture that and more as he looked toward the hill and said aloud, "I miss you," as loud as the neighbors' M80s blowing up gopher holes. What would he do without her? No one answered that question until one Sunday morning when the church bus stopped at the end of the road with its doors open and the ladies singing their hymns.

He walked to the bus and questioned why they had stopped since they all knew she had passed away a while ago. One lady explained that it was his wife's wish for him to find answers in the teachings of the Bible, and she had made them promise to help him achieve that.

Every Sunday, the bus would stop and wait with its doors open for him to join them, but he would sit on the porch until they left, trailing hymns behind them. He was sure they would eventually lose interest and keep going without stopping, but they never did. He didn't know if it was her voice he heard on that Sunday in April telling him to do it for her, but he found himself waiting at the end of the road, watching for the bus that would welcome him with open doors and song. 

Mike 2025