Old Josh, in: A Delicate Wind (1902)

A Delicate Wind
(Molly and Old Josh, 1902)


The summer became fall, and the fall itself advanced to a pre frosty winter, a chill in the air, Josh had less and less light to escape from his shanty, and from the fields, to the fishing down at he creek, Goose Creek. Soon it became darker before it got later, when he finished his chores on the plantation, he got ready to go down to the creek, in the dark actually, left the barn, grabbed his fishing pole, and took those big feet of his and nonetheless, dark or not, headed across the fields to the creek, looking back he saw the misty appearance of the barn, his shanty, the mansion, the Hightower Mansion. Molly Benton had her light on in her little house by the creek, usually when he got down there late, especially in December, it was tangible to think the false darkens was late at night, when in essence it was only 6:00 PM.
He sat on the edge of the bank on a large rock, that feeling of lateness was gone on, the birds cheerfully sang, the mocking birds in particular. The world was no longer in a hurry, he sat there without fear, calmly, visibility good, he could see across the creek, down the creek at Molly’s shack, painted grey, the grass seemed to move about him as he sat on the rock, he listened for Molly’s approach often perhaps she’d greet him this evening, sometimes she came out to say hello to Josh. Tomorrow was Sunday, and dawn would come unfilled with the need for work around the plantation, he might just as well fall to sleep he told himself, for he often did, right where he was, he had his jug of corn whisky, If she came, even if he was sleeping, he could smell her, the whole creek, its dew as it dropped down along the creek reeked with her, her approach, he’d remain motionless, just lie still if she came, he liked her, and he liked the smell of the earth, the taste of the creek water, dawn’s reddish pink horizons, it was all at his feet.
Then she’d come next to him, and he’d see her, under the morning sun, he liked that, he’d smell the last of the fire wood, breath it in, feel the wet yellowish grass, no wars to worry about, this was it, there was no more to be done in life just to enjoy her company, his two sons, his little plot of land he inherited, it was 1902, and Josh was 92-years old. His hand had grooves in them now, from old age, yet still a little firm, more gentle than they used to be, as was his voice. He had seen so many of his friends die.

In the morning, Josh lay and waited for Molly, the mist blew away as morning got older, there seemed to be no today, without her coming last night, or at least in the morning. The fire was out, he had caught three bullheads last night. Her not appearing made him disoriented, yet alert, in a spell of juxtaposition. Perhaps she didn’t feel well. He stopped his thinking, his fear, and urgent judgments, nit-picking of what she might be doing, even avoiding him, mulling over what might have happened to her, and laying on his back, pushed his body up, hauling that old savage body to its feet, shirt dirty, he brushed it off, exasperated, he heard some dogs in the distance, and he watched the house. Sometimes we don’t want to know, what we secretly know we know, trying in the process before we investigate, trying to talk ourselves out of moving on toward the sill house, He looked back towards The Hightower Plantation, it was just a spec, the size of a dot, he tried to speak, drooling like a dog, “Easy now,” he told himself as he walked to the small hut. He didn’t hear a thing in the house, he was uncoordinated, and opened up the door, and almost twisted his wrist to it being sprain, and called “Molly, is you ok, is you in there…?”
His eyes were still focusing, his shoulder hurt from laying on it all night, and he tried to twist and look around but his body was not obedient, he had to shift his legs to turn around to see, through the window he could see where he was last night where he fell to sleep, and the rock he sat on, fished from, then he looked at the bed, in her bedroom, she lay still in it, peaceful, he started to whimper, and entered the room.
He couldn’t remember how old she was, but his guess was that she was born around 1821, making her 80-years old. Her head lay softly on a pillow, her arm hung loosely to her side, he touched her arm, it was warm, slightly warm, he stopped whimpering, he tiptoed to her side, closer, there was an astonishing silence, he now knew she was dead, without realizing he kissed her forehead, functioning in reverse, he stepped back, said looking upward, as if heaven itself was listening, his eyes shut, his heart tugging back, “Thank you Lord for giving her such a peaceful death, if only youall give me one like that, I’d be obliged to give a special thank you.”

When he reached his shanty, a ways, away, he turned to look back, saw there was no smoke coming from her chimney, he’d miss that. He couldn’t see the house, but the smoke, the smoke always told him, Molly was cooking, she was alright. He did not hesitate to fall onto his cot, he was tired from the long walk, submerged now in recall, dreams, knee-deep in emotions, tears streaming from his eyes, and he fell to sleep. He felt Molly knew he was outside yesterday, and perhaps this morning, she also knew—he felt—she was dying, and didn’t want Josh to witness it, but it was good he was there, so his dream told him, no one likes dying completely alone, they want to know someone will be coming, or is nearby. Dying is a monster step, in a persons existence, if he is at peace with God, then the step is easier, if not, he is looking into the abyss, and it is pulling at him. The wind from the overhead window, was slightly opened, there was a delicate wind today, and Old Josh had a beautiful and peaceful sleep.

Written 7-13-2008