Passing Comfort

The sun was warm. It reflected softly off the gold rimmed frames, as dust motes danced with wild abandon.

His head nodded in time to the gritty folk strains pouring from the old record player in the corner. Calloused finger tips, nicked and bent with age, traced the arm of the rocking chair he had built 30 years ago. He sighed.

Through the partially closed door to his office, down the pea-green wallpapered hallway, across the living room where pictures of his children and grandchildren smiled, and into the kitchen, he could hear his wife preparing dinner.

Settling his tired body more comfortably into the cushioned chair, he folded his arms. Minutes passed, slowed in their passing by the ageless music that continued to softly fill the sunlit room. His head began to sink, and soon his chin was resting gently between the open collar of his golf shirt. His eyes closed. He sighed.

His wife called, dinner was ready.

He did not hear her .

Picture Perfect

He had her in his sight. Tenderly and with much care he traced her silhouette, taking in each crystalline detail.

There, on her right foot, the muddy spot from where she tripped on a stone. Her socks were lightly dusted from the three mile hike. He paused, watching each minute twitch of her calf muscles as they stabilized her on the precarious pile of rocks. Her hat was slipping.

Carefully focusing, he could see the outline of the tank-top she wore under the linen shirt. Her hair floated lightly behind her, blown like little white tufts of cotton on the summer breeze.

Her finger squeezed, the camera clicked, and she fell. The remaining echo from the shot skittered down the canyon walls.