The Stick and the Line [Truncated]

Faint outlines, glossed in white and gray. I could make out the hint of things, as if I was staring at a sketch. I could remember the times before, when there were colors and hues of varieties far outside my vocabulary, but now I was reduced to this and whatever my fingers could brush up against.

All noise was cut from my old ears, and the smells were gone before the age of nine. I assume the life on the farm did that, or maybe I was never able to smell much at all. Either difference, it was all gone in the same. The only thing that remained was what little "vision" I had in outlines and the feeling of all else around me.

My fingers were feeble, skittering up the railing of some old iron rail before I bumped into what was my handiwork of a sloppy whittle of wood before bending it into the shape of my porch guardrails. I had shaped them before the iron was added on... for me of course.

She is long gone; with 'she' being my wife, Helena. I had made those wooden rails much further back... long ago, for Helena, as one of my final carpentry projects back when I could still see at least the hues of black. I remember when she burned them gently with the torch, adding a little character to them like nearly charcoaled wood before I glossed over it with a thick glaze. A glaze that withstood her living life and would probably outlast mine. Or so I hoped.

God, I miss her. I would give anything to turn back the hands of time, forgoing what little of my vision to run my thumb along the edge of her hand. Even if it was the only thing I had left, at least my fingers could feel the warmth of her skin.

"Helen."

My voice was reverberating her name in my throat, and I knew what I was saying just based on the way her name always shook me to my core. The same name that brought me heartache, knowing she wasn't with me now. Hell, I still sob most nights in my room, sitting on my little twin mattress as I run my fingers up the old quilt she made me for my recliner. Now, I line my bed with it, turning over under it each night wishing we could be a little closer.

"Helen, my sweet Helen. I miss you more than life itself," I whispered under my breath, closing my tired eyes before going to sleep. My only shame would be in uttering those words to myself and Janice never catching me. I just hoped I wouldn't wake up tomorrow morning to have to do it all over again, but it's been years and death hasn't been kind enough to answer my pleas.

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Omitted Senses: Hearing, smell & taste