Continuing from yesterday (Beginnings 28 March 2018) and hoping for more comments:
Slowing to walk the last quarter-mile north, the ice that covered her crackled. She couldn’t see the little teardrop shaped lights, faerie lights, that hung on the bottom branches of the huge pine tree standing guard over the old dug out. Stepping off the dirt and onto the narrow sidewalk, she slid her way to the door and let herself out of the eerie frozen fog and into the relative warmth, and at least dry, of the garage.
The thin fleece face mask had iced itself to her ear-band and skull-cap. Pulling them off as one, they stood stiff on the bench where she put them while she got the little nail to dig the gravel out of the bottom of her Nike’s. Whoever thought of putting all those tiny troughs on the tread, never ran on dirt roads.
Finished and ready to walk across the dark silent floors, she picked up the stiff head-gear and quietly opened the door, going into the house. Easing the storm door closed as she stepped onto the mat, she pushed the thick door shut behind her, gently turning the brass knob to close it. The quiet was habit, born from so many days of repetition in order not to wake him.
Her father was a man of routine, and she long ago learned not to disturb his early morning sleep by letting the storm door slam shut as it invariably did if you didn’t guide it. Did it matter anymore? She didn’t think so, but all the same, she never took a chance. He rarely woke up at all anymore, the sickness having gnawed him to almost nothing.
She froze by the tall counter of the kitchen island. Straining, the sound she’d heard was barely there, a kind of humming and soughing, like delicate wings moving against each other and emitting some kind of harmony: a chord or the tiny whisper of something. She lost it but stood as still as that cold layer of fog, longing for the warmth of that sound, that consonance.