0200: A Time for Compassion

 

0200 hrs.

Fog.

Wispy,

Whirling and swirling.

Streetlight.

A lone bat,

Looping and swooping.

Night sounds.

Frogs.

Crickets.

A train whistle, far away.

Radio.

Crackling.

Voices in the night air.

Prowler.

A noise outside.

“I’ll take it.”

“10-4.”

“Backup?”

“Negative.”

Front porch light.

Moth.

Flittering and fluttering.

Flower bed.

Weeds.

Leaves,

Leftovers from last fall,

Ticking and clicking.

Across the weathered porch floor,

Pushed by a gentle breeze.

Wooden swing.

Rusted chain.

Crooked.

Front door.

Needs paint.

Loose knob.

A knock.

Door swings inward,

Slowly.

Hinges.

Creaking and groaning.

Open,

Just a crack.

Tiny face, crinkled with time,

And of days long since passed.

“I heard them again, Officer.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Damp, anxious eyes.

Faded gray.

“They were at the window, like before.”

“I’ll check around back.”

“You’re too kind.”

I wish my Bill was still here.”

“I know.”

“He’s been gone ten years this week.”

“A good man.”

“Thank you.

Coffee?

It’s fresh.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Two sugars and a little cream, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Be right back.”

Outside.

Flashlight.

Waiting.

Passing time.

Neighbor’s house, dark.

Furnace, humming.

Rattles, then stops.

Quiet.

Two minutes pass.

Kitchen window.

Brightly lit.

Darting here and there.

Full coffee pot.

Silver tray.

Cookies.

Cups.

Saucers.

Spoons.

For two.

Screen door.

Creaking.

Thump.

“Everything’s okay, Ma’am.”

“Oh, I do feel better now,

Thank you.

Coffee’s ready.

Come inside.”

Warm smells.

Vanilla. Fresh bread. Coffee.

“It’s just with Bill gone…”

“I know.”

A downward glance.

Wall clock.

Ticking and tocking.

A sigh.

A tear.

Silence.

Tick, tick, tick.

“Would you mind if I sat for a minute?”

A sniffle.

“I’m tired, and really shouldn’t drive.

After all, how would it look,

A cop asleep at the wheel?”

A smile.

Relief.

Just like last night.

And the night before.

And the night before.

At 0200,

Ten years after her Bill passed away.