Sunrise In The Bedroom Window
by
Andy Wilkinson
SMASHWORDS EDITIION
Copyright 2011 by Andy Wilkinson

The old woman fingered the scar on her husband’s shoulder as she did most mornings while waiting for him to wake for the day.  She thought about this little ritual of hers and tried to remember when it had started.  Years ago? Decades maybe? Hard to say, but it gave her comfort, in a strange sort of way, so she continued the practice as she watched for the sunrise, and waited for the old man to come to life.
The scar was a lasting reminder of a bad time when she watched alone for the sun to come up every morning and waited for him to come home from that terrible war.  She was a faithful wife and had loved the old man through good and bad, completely devoted to him for more than sixty years, even when he was away . . . especially when he was away.  
The sun peaked over their bedroom window sill, and she fiddled with the scar.  He never spoke of his injury, or how the C shaped imperfection had gotten there, or of the letter he had received from the president when he came home after that horrible time.  His generation of heroes were like that, just lived quietly with the memories of their deeds.
The sun was almost complete in the bedroom window, but the old man remained silent and still.  The old woman always woke first, anyway, to think, and feel happy for another day with her husband, and to touch that scar before getting up to make coffee.  
She would have to call their son this morning--their only child--and she recalled with pleasure how he and the old man had started talking to each other again, and that thought produced a single little tear that trailed down the side of her face and settled into her ear.
The old man did not stir with the sun as usual, and the old woman did not get up to make the coffee just yet.  She wanted a little more time with him this morning before getting out of their bed. No hurry.  Life presented no reasons for hurry these days in their steady and lazy existence.  Another half hour, she thought, and gingerly took the old man’s hand. What’s thirty more minutes?
She looked around the room in the golden morning light and thought how this modest little house had been their home for most of their sixty-plus years.  And what a good life they had shared together.  This caused another tear, and a little smile, and she released the old man’s hand and touched the scar.
She had to get up now; she had put it off long enough.  She needed to call their son right away, and there were other calls to make as well.  The old man had not moved for a long time now, and the scar on his shoulder was growing cold to the old woman’s touch.  And the morning sun was full in the bedroom window.