A mist hangs over the valley, sticking dew-like to the leaves on the old maple tree out behind the coffee-colored barn. Eerily it dominates the space as nothing else is stirring in the cool breeze that accompanies the overwhelming moisture. A gray house stands sentinel over the property, approximately 20 paces to the south of the old barn, with all of its shades closed, shutting out the muted morning light. Across the cobblestone road there is a rusted cistern that sits isolated from everything else, like a middle child who often gets forgotten in the hustle and bustle of family life. Water swirls around its basin in a clockwise fashion, indicating its position in the northern hemisphere, and its slow gurgle is the only sound that can be heard in the area.
In one of the small rooms upstairs in the gray house there are old-fashioned bunk beds, upon which lie two children, dead to the world. The younger one snores loudly in a syncopated rhythm from her perch in the top bunk, covers pulled up under her chin just as they had been when her mother tucked her in late the night before. She dreams classically of fluffy, white sheep sliding over and under a perfect picket fence in pursuit of one another, and there is a smile on her lips. Her older sister tosses and turns in her sleep, plagued by nightmares that luckily don’t impinge upon her waking hours, complements of an overactive imagination that serves her well at playtime. They share a bedroom out of necessity, but they are also best friends, a happy coincidence.
Outside the mist begins to clear, no longer obscuring the sun that has risen in the eastern sky, as it slides off against the backdrop of the multi-colored horizon. Animals begin to stir in the cool morning air, ready to begin the day that has started with such promise. Inside the house’s kitchen there is a matching gurgle that can be heard. It comes from the brand new coffee pot on the mottled ceramic counter. The machine still sports a sticker expounding its positive components that the childrens’ mother has failed to pull off yet, even though she has thought about it the two times it has been used since it was purchased. She herself is in the bathroom down the hall, sitting on the wooden bench under the cabinet, breathing deeply with her head between her legs. It is what she always does in the early morning hours when no one else is awake to see her, to question her actions, or to distract her with their cries.
A deer crosses the side yard directly in front of the barn as the mother sobs quietly from her position in the bathroom. The deer cocks its head to the side as if it can hear the strangled sobs of the young woman in the nearby house, then it takes off like a shot through the woods to the south, cracking branches underfoot as it disappears in the foliage. The woman’s tears stream down her cheeks as the coffee has finally strained through the filter and has settled into the pot. It sits there brown and murky, waiting for her to rediscover it as a stirring takes place in the childrens’ room.
As one and then the other awaken, the young mother dries her tears and straightens her body to its full height, ready to face the daunting task of getting through another day. A knock sounds at the bathroom door, and she opens it to let them in.
Sam
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