When the sun goes down

Because it had always been my nature, I doubt everything. Now this comes as no shocker to anyone who has known me. But I am sure the following words will stun them as I have bewildered myself by what happened. Hopefully that will happen just one time—any more and I will surely kill my fool self (ha, ha). I told another friend the story of what happened, just as I will, in a moment, tell you. That was the first time I had tried to explain to anyone how I—in my golden years—had changed. At the end of telling, I found my dulled self fallen into this maze lost in a gaze, staring at very wide open Betty Davis eyes.

Here is the story again. Because change in me is so embarrassing I am telling it just to you dear friend. What happened was simple. It began when I took a further look at the setting sun. Consideration came as a shock which knocked me down into unusualness. On my wobbly knees I begged with trembling prayerful hands for forgiveness that day. My understanding had always been that there could be only one meaning for the setting sun. And the meaning came with plain face value. This is when the eve-of-day couples with itself for the second time. Put simply; the sun rises and then the sun sets. This material has had no doubt. It had no symbolic value. Another perception came. It was metaphoric.

When the sun set the clatter of death comes with such weighted door-rattles, it brought pause and notice to anyone whom lurked behind the opening of a lightning-flash exit. What gave me pause tied itself to a childhood phrase ‘third time is the charm.’ Ever since that day I valued a passion, a smile, which has ever since been bound to discovery that had happened twice. This brought me to a parenthetic praise while praising ‘the circle of life.’

There was this special woman whom always rocked on the porch out back. She was my mother-in-law; I called her, ma. This one particular day I took special notice while she gave a blank stare out to the edge of the sky. Her head would cock itself on her neck and then un-cock itself while she rocked in her chair. For a spell her wet eyes staring spanned nothing in particular. It was still hot in the evening, so her blank stare fell insecurely through whelps of waves in the sweltering air.

Ma had just finished reading for what seemed the ten-thousandth time sections about “The Crucifixion,” in The King James Bible, New Testament. She took her time reading all four versions. “Sundown came, she said, when they nailed our dear Christ to the cross. It seems as if that makes some kind of difference, what do you think? I remember her rhetorical effect too, that only one of the four gospels (Matthew, Luke, Mark and John) had no mention of the sky going dark. Shortly before, we discussed her parents passing, a little. “Sunset,” she said, “that’s when death comes knocking at your door, daughter.” Sometime after ma’s reading the idea ‘whatever is incredible can bare truth’ came into my head. The revelation began for me. The words she employed permutated into the vantage of death.

When that happened you could say I was young in the Lord, foolish in the Lord or could only ‘see through a glass, darkly’ (1 Corinthians 13; King James Version, KJV). After then you could say—I know even as also I am known (1 Corinthians 13; KJV)—I grew a few gray hairs: Doubt of revelation ended for me behind her rattling bedroom door; it is just that then I could not utter those words. I did not have my glasses on and I remember thinking: That damn orange orb. It was low in sky then, with her passing too. I saw the expanse darkling through the same panes as these. Yet that sun had merely startled my-skeptic-self. No, its experience had not undone this cynic, there was little to not one iota of doubt’s change in me then; nothing opened my eyes. No, I did not commiserate with her until a little while back.

My hubby, John and I, we had sat, barely engaged humping in the old rockers. The old rocker boards shrilled on what was ma’s, now it’s our, rustic-gray kept outback porch, in that usual time of day—evening. We freely glanced at each other, tagged each other, now and again watched one another stare at each other, as the sun went down. Finally, after my liberal gaze into his eyes, “Sweetie”, I said, “I am tired, aren’t you.” O’ he looked tired, all right; and before saying, as usual, I more than took for granted what I freshly knew about his droopy way of “Yea.” Besides, I watched his youthfulness pay wan for years now. The only retainer, which is reminder of our yester-years together, is the starry light of his beautiful brown eyes that never strayed. Other like grants incorporated change. He had gained and lost weight so many times his skin had stretched and shrank until wrinkles became him. His luster became ashen. He was more than overdone by the sun—burnt, from being outside the livelong day and for so many years. His hung-loose pastel in sallow skin covered body, especially his craggy ‘Make My Day’ jowls, acquired a natural tinge of spotted-olive. Scarlet lines creased the spaces, under his thinned hoary mane, which still could look full when combed just right, showed through. I studied the sparse hairs of his right inner ear, gray to white, long, maturing buds that judged more than just his years.

“Sweetie, ya want me ta go first?”

He raised his snowy head turned it with a lean toward me, slowly. Brown eyes less than his old man look, glazed me. I heard that tired faint soft “Yea;” this moment faded as dimness stole my mind.

I saw that John’s red and black plaid long sleeve shirt was torn, I assumed him pulling weeds out from between the tractor wheels did it; he never said. Though he mentioned the shirt needed tossing anyway. In times like this, I teased him, countering with: Yes Hubby dear. Still, awe insinuated my kept mystery behind the cabinet doors of those beautiful brown eyes of his, before closing, today.

I eased up from my porch rocker. I leaned; kissed his cheek. Pink grew in white areas of his eyes. Red veins of tiredness showed up close. If his eyes had any stung feeling, never a flinch, wink or glint of acknowledgement came. His sockets seemed to swell or the lobes seemed to flatten but no tears when he last spoke. South Carolina misses rain this year as an old man, watery tears from time to time. The garden had been tough to work with, this year, because of the dry spell. I remember this old man’s adage, he always said something like: We’ll, do ah-right; ain’t we always done ah-right. I walked across him still humping on squeaky boards. He sat his head back down and laid into the backrest without worry. His last overalls soiled by working out there. I did not know if I could get them clean before morning. I sauntered into the kitchen. I slowed in the back archway. “Remember Me,” rattled while the screen swung a next to last sense which employed befitting closure.

I have long been leaned my heart into the dim soul of his brown eyes, saying a final “Yea, dee-ah.”

I heeded his climax. I must have; I was in the bathroom when he came inside. I must have…. The grave, unnerving, screen door closed prior to steps, which squeezed his last squeaks passing onto the wood floorboards of our bedroom. I had just taken my old yellow sundress off. I took off my bra and panties, washed up. I leaned back to look into the bedroom from the bath. I heard a quiet grunt. I saw him bend over to do something. Then, I gazed out at the golden old sunlight tracing itself back through that room to our bed. It spotlighted him. Looking out that one window, I recalled another moment long ago when ma had slumped down. Just before noticing him in the bedroom, I took his nightclothes out and laid them on the bed. I put on my nightclothes. By that time, as I said he had come inside. That, ah’m sure of…. Ah’m sure of that… Ah’m sure of that… Of that, ah’m….

I remember how the doc spoke with shaking head, viewing stiffening Hubby still bent over, balanced and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Ah know…, it ah-ways seem to happen when the sun goes down.” His words connoted ma’s last manner in her rocker after reading the New Testament; I glared down. One of John’s shoes was off; the other one was unlaced.