Dust and Echoes/In the Immediate Distance - Pastoral

The sun was setting between the mottled green, and then again deeper green planes of the mountains. They were sharp and angular, pulled upwards into a shrug as if eternally frozen in the midst of a primordial sigh of contentment. And if the earth was to be content, it would be due to his lover falling behind him. She was singing golden lullabies - molten arias to glance off his rivers, and hot, sleepy sonatas to refract through the oblique edges of dusty windows. Inside those windows were tiny earthen keepsakes: pots, jars, and mounds of fertile (though recently sapped) topsoil on the table that had been forgotten for the moment but that would soon be swept from the table and replaced with the vibrant vegetables that they had but recently shared their bed with. There were six settings at the table, always six. Five were likely to be occupied while the food was still warm.

Hassan pushed the door open and closed it behind him, forgetting to be embarrassed at having twice tried and failed in unsticking it before his eventual success; it was what the door did this time of year, and after all - what is the use in arguing with a door? He sighed his sigh, the one he sighed every day - and that many others sigh as well; it is a sigh borne of hard work and the assurance that there will be relief, and then another day, and then more hard work to follow. It is the same one that the mountains sigh.

“I’ve got the new offer. It’s less than what we wanted for it.”

He knew that she was there; the house felt empty; it felt devoid of life when she wasn’t. They had made it together, and there were pieces of each of them everywhere.

She came from the garden, still brushing the roots and dirt from the folds of her clothes and blushing from head to toe over some of the daylight’s sultry songs.

“How much?”

“Forty thousand,” he replied.

She put her hands on her hips and closed her eyes for a moment.

“I didn’t think that it would be great, but it’s worth twice that.”

“I know that, but if it’s sitting there making us nothing, we must get rid of it before some kid puts a rock through the windshield.”

“My mother built that battery, and it held power longer than any other one we had for the whole time I worked her farm.”

He grabbed her hand, pulled her in for a reluctant kiss, and held her for a few seconds. He laughed sometimes at how she was when she was frustrated; she would pout, lose the Indian color to her speech he had given her over the years and revert to her southern-tinged colony accent. Most common of all, she would not let him near because she knew that he would calm her down.

“Should he come tomorrow or over the weekend?”

She sighed.

“The weekend will be fine.”

She let him go and moved towards the kitchen, her feet touching the wood floor softly this time before rooting for a second.

“If these new ones start to leak,” she tossed over her shoulder, “I swear I’ll go and take it back myself.”

Hassan laughed brightly then, knowing full well that she meant the threat - and could carry through with it, too.

“Vitraag won’t be in until later, he says they had some trouble with the gravity around Bildal. He’s bringing back some samples from the museum; I hope you can at least try to sound interested.”

“He’s always late on purpose, you know.”

As he left the entryway of the house, Hassan truly entered his home. It was little, tiny things - that picture, crooked on the wall in just such a way; that chair leg that he was going to fix eventually, but that his wife would likely get to first when she finally had had enough of waiting on him. These were the home, not the entryway or the rooms. It was those favorite smells that came from the kitchen, however, that meant the most; those aromas had followed them from home to displaced home - heedless of the planet or situation, seeking only to please.

“What do you mean, he’s late on purpose?”

“He’s a paleontologist, Hassan. He likes to dig his tikka burritos out of the freezer so he can bring them back to life.”

Hassan laughed again, a hearty belly laugh this time. She always made him laugh; sometimes he did not see how she could break him from his stormy moods, but she still seemed to find a way. It had been a tough season this year, but in tough seasons people rely the most on their power and it’s the farmers who end up taking the hit; even with the way things had been, with harsh seasons on harsh planets and the heartbreak of losing their little ones to the world, she always made him laugh.

“I think he would not like the things he digs up coming back to life.”

He joined her in the kitchen, splitting the cutting duties to divide the time in half. This was the place they had always shared; their holy place in the house. It was the place that they had met each other, and the place that they had fallen in love. Their kids had not shown any interest in cooking, besides the bare minimum that they had to make for themselves off on their own, but it is a good thing to leave the pipes to the plumber and the pictures to the painter.

The vegetables were not as large as their store-bought family, but they were incredibly fragrant - and more tender, and firm at the same time - than seemed in any way reasonable. This world had good soil, and it begged for seeds as if it had been made a template for green and left that way. Today, there was fresh garlic, vibrant and colorful green potatoes, and beautifully juicy heirloom tomatoes, all things that went into Momma’s Semi-Famous New-World Tikka sauce. They’d make a few gallons of it, and it then went in - and on - everything for a week or two: burritos, chicken, rice, soups, and whatever it tasted good with.

Julie looked at him as she cut through a potato rind and scooped out the spongy interior.

“What?” Hassan said, deciding that he’d bite.

She smiled but kept silent for a few seconds, looking back at her hands as the nimble but calloused things diced the exposed meat of the potato.

“When was it,” she said finally, “that you became an old man? I fall in love with a young, handsome man and then look away for a few years as the children grow, and I look back to find the young man turned into a good father, a good man, and a good beard that is turning white by the day.”

She reached over and combed his beard with her fingers.

“You know, if I am an old man I must have an old wife to nag me.”

“No-no-no, you know that I have not aged a day!”

“You certainly have not, my dear. You’re still the young, perky engineer I met in school.”

“Well, I’m afraid I am not so perky these days. I feel so tired sometimes, like all the life and energy has just gone out from my bones.”

“Oh trust me, you still get perky when it is cold. You wonder why I try to freeze the house with the air conditioner.”

She gasped and giggled, suddenly fifteen years younger.

“You dirty old man, keep your eyes on what you’re doing or you’ll cut your fingers off. And we can see if it is still cold outside when the children are asleep.”