THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
It was a cozy neighborhood where everybody knew everyone else and there was never a shortage of people to help when one was in need. There was also a lot of tomfoolery going on, which he and his wife had always enjoyed, until now. The winter snowman practical jokes had been funny over the years but, this time, their neighbor had taken it way too far…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)
Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…
Her knobby fingers. Her knobby fingers are the only thing I feel day after day, year after year. Jill and me.
If you’ve never experienced 80 years of watching the same corner with the woman you love, let me break it down for you. Jill and I have seen boys grow into men, girls become mothers, and all of the joy that lies in between. Life.
The current group of children that play in our yard are at the ‘curious’ stage. Of course, children are always curious, but they’re starting to be curious about each other. Now, the Saturday morning snowball fights pitted the boys on one side and the girls on the other.
I would laugh, if I could, because they’ll see. They always do.
In the flickering light of a lamp post I watch as the snowfall dances in flurries, sweeping through the dark sky. I am always in awe with the way snowflakes can move–like the dramatic crescendo of music zooming through the air, and then softly falling to the ground.
Jill and I spend our nights just the two of us; it can be lonely, but our lonely nights are just promises of bustling tomorrows.
Though tonight we are not alone. I hear multiple sets of footsteps behind me; the crunch, crunch of fresh snow. I am willing every inch of my body to move, to turn, to fight, to do something. But I know it’s pointless.
I see out of the corner of my eye one of the neighborhood boys lift up a shovel, I want to yell, “NOT HER!”
Thwack!
Next thing I know, my wife’s head lays across the ground in front of me. A pile of white powder and a pink scarf. The knobs of her fingers ripped away.
She’s gone. My wife, my beautiful wife is gone. Maintaining my constant smile is pure agony. I want the upturned corners to melt down. I want to melt down.
We don’t need girls, the boys say as they walk away. But I do–I need this one.
The sun rising over the horizon signals the start of a new day. The bright orange and pinks make Jill glow, sparkle even as she lays across the ground. She’s beautiful, I think.
This is the first time I’ve seen her, I realize, my stone eyes always facing outward, never seeing the woman at my side.
Isn’t that just my luck? I have the most beautiful wife in town and the first time I see her is when she’s dead?!
All I wanted was to one day see her standing in front of me. It was a dream, and it had been for years. Little did I know that true luxury was feeling her branched fingers between mine.
“Well this won’t do,” I hear over my shoulder. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Margaret. She was the first child who made us all those years ago. Margaret walks to face me and I see the years of lines etched in her face.
“Grandma?” A small voice calls, “What happened?”
Little Penny appears at Margaret’s side, her wide eyes take in what is left of Jill. I want to tell them the full story, I want to beg for help, but all I can do is look straight ahead and wait.
“It seems like Jill had an accident; would you like to put her back together with me?”
If there is a God, I think he is a merciful one.
The two of them roll and pack Jill’s middle, they make sure her eyes are facing dutifully ahead, and that her scarf is draped across her shoulders.
“We want to make sure she stays warm!” Margaret says and Penny giggles.
The two of them add something new this time. I feel a small ball resting up against me. He too has small, round eyes and branched hands.
For the first time the Frosts are now three: Jack, Jill, and John, our son.
I can’t see Jill, still, but I always feel her knobby fingers. Her knobby, wooden fingers in mine.
