The stone house on the hill was quiet and looked deserted. Soft new leaves of winter wheat tickled her legs as Barbara made her way up the slope. Sunshine warmed her back. MeadowLarks filled the air with their happy songs.

She leaned on her walking stick, more for support than usual. Winter wore her down. Now, with her world waking to another spring, Barbara felt left behind. Even so, it was a beautiful morning and she was out to enjoy every minute of the new day.

Stepping over broken glass from the window above, she stood on tiptoe to look inside. Plaster crumbled from years of neglect lay on the floor of what she remembered as the living room. “How long had it been since that late autumn day she and her friend, Carol, rode horseback to deliver a message to the old lady living in this house? Seventy plus years,” she thought. They were in Junior High at the time and Carol’s mother always insisted she ride with a companion. Barbara was usually called.

The old lady was bent and fragile looking but she managed to force another log into the living room wood stove and offered the girls cookies and cocoa. While the three sat and sipped their drinks, the woman thanked them for coming all the way out to deliver the message. She would be leaving soon, and the message told her when her family expected to meet her train.

Weak autumn sunshine filtered through the starched white curtains. Wind roared through branches of the nearby sycamore tree. The old lady sighed and told the girls stories of when she first came to Arkansas. She was a young bride and this was her husband’s home, growing up. She told of the cleaning and repair work they needed to do before winter. Winter came early that year and they had to manage. She told stories of cyclones and drought, heavy snow that buried the goat shed and working long hours in hot sun tending their truck garden.

Carol stood up and placed her cup and saucer in the sink. Barbara did the same. The old lady sat, watching shadows of wind-blown branches against the floral print wall. “We need to get home before dark,” Carol said. The old woman turned with a tear in her eye and said, “It’s been so lovely having you girls stop by. I hope you can come again in the spring.”

Stepping through piles of dried weeds, Barbara made her way to what had been the small front porch, now rotted away, and used a log block as a step to go inside. The air was musty, in spite of broken windows and the door felt loose when she carefully opened it. Pieces of furniture, rat eaten and beyond repair, set as she remembered it. Her footsteps and walking stick echoed as she entered the kitchen. Sunlight filtered through grimy glass. Torn curtains fluttered in the breeze from outside. In the fly-specked gritty sink sat two china cups and saucers.

Barbara shuddered. “Had they been the last to see the old lady alive?” she wondered. “Had anyone known she needed help? How long was it before she was missed? Living away from town with no phone, no electricity, no way to call for help.”

She quickly made her way back to the front door. Stepping outside, grateful for the warm spring sunshine, she lost her balance and fell. Thoughts of the old lady returned. Barbara stifled a cry. Carefully pulling herself up, she brushed grit off her bloody skinned knees, and hobbled away from the house.

“Well,” she thought, ‘at least I have a cell phone. I can call for help if I need it.’ She limped to a large smooth rock and carefully sat down. ‘Paul doesn’t know where I’ve gone. I should have left a note,’ she thought as she pulled her phone from its pocket. The phone powered up but there was no signal.

Wind rustled new spring leaves in the old sycamore tree. Storm clouds covered the sun. The birds were quiet.

Jeannie Leigh © March 13, 2023