Many endings

The Old Man pushed himself away from the table, but not before finishing the last of his pancakes washed down with a full slurp of black coffee. "Why is Tutu crying?" Lei'ohu asked once she saw her grandmother's shoulders heave with sorrow. The Old Man caught Kikepa's eyes, and nodded the unspoken language of kin. Take this one for me. Kikepa nodded.

The Old Man whose given name was Clayton Brown, was known by all as Clay Brown before he was The Old Man. He was a Scot who came by his true calling through his name. It was work and dirt that made him sought. It was his red hair turn-to-silver hair at twenty that gave him the nickname, and for more folks than not, Clay Brown was The Old Man.

His hands were large and rough when he worked. Now, the winter season just turned kept The Old Man's hands soft from less shoveling or hammering. Embracing his long-loved Sophie Lei, Clay Brown tucked the woman onto his chest, and under his chin. Looking through the window he saw his friend, Black, the neighbor's cat. That one was a hunter, and indiscriminate with his killing of anything than was smaller than he. "It's possible the cat is there only for a bit of sunshine, darlin'."

"Possible, but not likely." Sophie was not convinced, but wanted to be.

For most of their life as a couple the role of anchor shifted between them. Sometimes it was Sophie who talked The Old Man down from his galloping high horse. Done mostly during the dark hours when they lay awake the fear or pains of a reckoned assault might be diluted or angled differently through talking through.

"The Anna was giving me ways to laugh at the forgetfulness that replaces so much. She said they might be gathering somewhere ... having jolly parties. She found a way to speak directly to my heart, without words." Damn that cat. But really, she loved Black, too. Damn that, too.

The twins stayed at the table, Lei'ohu continued to nibble at the last of her pancakes, using her fingers. Kikepa told her sister about the morning she had had with their tutu, piecing together the words she remembered with thoughts and voices who helped with her story.

From her place, The Anna pushed at the bottom of her newly built nest, pulling spider silk to hold things together. Maybe, the story can be left here with open ends, and voices you hear to make for many endings. Or maybe the story has just begun.

~*~

Written for an 'Ole Pau night before the coming of Ka Piko o Wakea. A fantasy, a story held together with memories and imagination with loose ends fitting right in.

Spring comes, we celebrate, release what needs to be recycled and give thanks,
Mokihana