He woke up to hot water running down his back. Michael Dosley was standing in the shower, with suds all over him, bar of soap in his hand. “What the heck am I doing in here?” He peeked out of the shower curtain and saw on his analog clock that it was 1:25 in the morning. He continued to wonder, thinking he had gone to bed at 11:00. But why was he in the shower in the wee hours of the morning? Raising his face, he let the soothing water wash over him. He ran his hands through his white, wavy hair trying to remember what happened that night. How had he come to be in the shower? He turned around and the water stung his sunburned neck.
Michael got out of the shower, grabbed his towel, and faced the mirror. For awhile he stared at himself. He noticed that his face was even redder than yesterday morning. Looking into his deep set, blue eyes he wished he could see her again. His wife, Katherine, had recently passed away and Michael longed to see her face, not his. When she was around, his eyes always had a shimmer in them, but now that she wasn’t, the shimmer had become dull and lifeless. He ran a towel through his white hair. He wondered how he had gotten into the shower and washed himself. Had he gotten in from work late and just fell asleep while bathing? He dismissed the notions from his mind, just wanting to get some rest. He pulled on an old shirt and underwear and laid on his bed, staring out the window into the never-ending sky.
―
He could smell the strong, biting scent of turpentine as he walked up the creaky, wooden stairs. He approached a room. As he opened the door there was no squeak because the hinges had just been lubricated. He peered inside and found himself surrounded with Katherine’s nature paintings, along with her new venture, folksy pen drawings of fairies, and nursery rhymes on footstools. The room was full of intense colors and scenes. Pictures of the glorious green Catskill Mountains, ancient, gnarled, oak trees of the Indiana wilderness, and fields of violet, orange, and red tulips of a dreamed place encircled him. Michael looked around in awe at his wife’s work. It was almost as if he were in the Garden of Eden; the paintings were so lavishly done with such authenticity and detail. Intermingled with these breathtaking paintings were the pedestals with Humpty Dumpty, Jack and Jill, Little Bo Peep, and The Three Blind Mice. He looked to his right where he saw a picture she had painted of their small family. Katherine, Art, and Michael sat on the front porch of their old farm house. Art was just a toddler here, smiling as he sat in between Katherine and Michael. Michael had his arm around Katherine. All had enormous grins and seems to be laughing. As Michael gazed at the painting, he looked at his wife, wanting to see her hazel eyes and rosy cheeks. He moved closer to get a better look at her seeing her somewhat crooked smile, and caramel colored hair. He missed Katherine more than anything.
―
Whoosh, an axe fell, spitting the wood. Around 10:00 the next morning, Michael was outside. He had been out in the singeing sun for a few hours and was getting tired. He tried to breathe but it was difficult due to the dense, muggy air. The air was so thick it felt as if he were swallowing with each breath. A slight, welcomed breeze swept by. Sweat dripped from Michael’s face. He leaned on his axe and raised his face to the sky, he closed his eyes let the breeze cool him off. His wavy hair fluttered in the wind. White salt had formed around his nose and mouth from the sweat. He wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and hands on his coveralls and went back to work, woodchips flying each and every way. He didn’t even need wood; it was summer, and he needed something to do.
He could not help but think of his dear wife. Since her death he had only been trying to run away. To get away from this loss, he sold his farm. Michael was 65 years old, living in the woods of southern Indiana by the Hoosier National Forest. He had been a successful corn farmer his whole life. He wished he could see Katherine again. She was perfect for him but now he couldn’t ever see her again, his beloved Katherine.
Michael heard a rustle in the woods nearby. He stood still and scanned through the trees. He heard a croaking gobble and then spotted it, a wild turkey. He slowly put down his axe, went to his shed, and picked up his shot gun. Always prepared, he kept it loaded just for situations like this, an easy chance at a good meal. The turkey was parading through the oak and dogwoods with his black and gray plumage fanned. Michael took careful aim, found the red and blue head in his sight, aimed just below the long neck, and shot. The turkey dropped, instantly killed.
“Well, there’s dinner for ya,” Michael said to himself.
He picked up the turkey, and dragged it by its feet to his house. Skillfully, he plucked and gutted it for his dinner that night, feeling a bit happier now that he had something useful to do.
That night, after seasoning the turkey with salt, pepper, sage, and onion powder, he roasted a nice meal for himself. He made something like Katherine would prepare: turkey, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and some watermelon. He was proud of himself. He reflected back to when Katherine and he were newly married with their little son Art still in the high chair. Their anniversary had arrived and in celebration for three years of marriage, Michael bought a fifteen pound turkey (it had been awhile since they had a good meal) and a single magenta rose. He went home early to surprise Katherine. Walking in he found his little loving wife singing Art to sleep for his afternoon nap. Her voice was soft, and silk-like. She sat in a chair and cuddled him in his swaddled clothes. As he gazed at her he couldn’t help but fall in love again. She finished the lullaby with a nice soothing note, kissed Art on the forehead, and laid him in his crib. Turning, she found Michael and ran to him amazed and excited that he was home so early.
“I have something for you,” Michael said first giving her the rose and then showing the bird.
“O thank you so much!” she replied sincerely, and then leaned in and kissed him.
Later, after they had put the turkey in the oven, they sat down and chatted about all the things they had accomplished together, the successful farm they had, their little son Art. He had woken up and was rolling around on the ground, entertaining himself with his feet and a rattle. They laughed and played with him. Katherine went to check on the turkey when there was a yelp,
“Dagnabbit! Michael I need you…”
Michael went in and saw the turkey burnt. He just chuckled and went over to his wife and hugged her. They both began laughing.

Michael smiled and basked in this memory. He wished he could have a few more moments with her. As he ate, he read the newspaper. He bit down discovering something hard in his mouth, a BB. He spit it out onto his plate and looked out the window. Every once in a while he saw a splotch of yellow light, just a small dot. The fireflies were out. Dark gray clouds were rolling in. A storm was coming. After finishing his dinner, he cleaned the kitchen, and then went through the rickety spring-loaded screen door into the cool night. He sat on his porch smoking his pipe. The wind was picking up. He looked over at the old pickup truck and remembered he needed to get the oil checked. Next to the Chevy was his flower garden which bloomed with pink and white roses. He had made this garden in remembrance of Katherine; she always had a rose garden. Often, when he was coming back from his fields he found her grooming her flower garden. He smelled the sweet fragrance of the roses, remembering his beloved wife and slowly fell asleep.
―
The sky was pitch black outside as Michael strode across the wet ground. The rain was pouring as he crouched down and placed flowers on Katherine’s grave. The thunder crashed through the sky. He was crying as he talked to her.
“Katherine, I am so sorry. I miss you so much, I love you. I wish you were here with me. I am so sorry.”
CLAP, he shot up out of bed; he was awakened, startled. The raging storm had woken him. He lay in his bed, which was saturated with water. Confused he turned on the lamp next to him. He remembered falling asleep outside. Scanning his room, he first saw mud all over the floor. He shifted in his bed, and found he was lying in dirt; grime was splattered all over the clean white sheets. His boots were by his bed, covered with wet clay. Upon looking at himself he discovered that he was still in his coveralls.
“What’s going on?”
An explosion of bright violet light. He was frightened. What had happened to him? Why was he all wet? He went downstairs and gazed out onto his porch. The truck wasn’t by his flower garden; it had been moved.
“What the hell is going on?”
Going back upstairs, he pulled on his boots and then scrambled down the stairs again to make sure the truck was OK. The rain was falling in sheets as he examined the green Chevy. It seemed to be fine, but then he saw something peculiar. He looked inside the cab and saw pink and white rose petals on the seat.
“These weren’t here before,” he said perplexed.
He opened up the cab door and picked up the petals. He examined them, awestruck at this discovery. They were wet and muddied. He hobbled inside and fell onto his couch, trying to figure out the mystery of the night. Had his dream been reality? Had he been out in the rain and gone to his wife’s burial site during the night? He decided to go to his wife’s grave the next day.
With some difficulty he started up his old truck and headed down the gravel road to the small, almost unnoticeable cemetery. He was still bewildered at what he had found and was keen to figure everything out. He drove on down the road. The day had been stifling but now the evening was quite pleasant. The corn stalks were 5 feet tall; it would be almost time to harvest. Slowing down, he pulled into the cemetery and parked. He got out and moved systematically to Katherine’s grave. He had been there so many times that he had memorized the way, up six rows, over ten columns. As he walked up to the burial place he saw fresh pink and white flowers scattered at the headstone and that same sweet, numbing fragrance of the flowers, of his wife, came to him. He stopped, looked ahead of him, and saw footprints in the mud leading up to the tombstone. He looked closer and found they were in a cowboy boot shape; they were his. His earlier assumption was correct. His dream wasn’t a dream after all. He then recalled the night he had been awakened in the shower. He had never suffered this kind of memory loss before, had he? Overwhelmed, he got back into his pickup and tried to remember of any past events that were similar to these. He was exhausted from the past few nights and wanted to get some sleep. Getting in the Chevy, he laid down on the bench seat and covered his eyes with his cowboy hat and slipped off into a deep sleep.
―
It was harvesting time for Michael. With his old age he had gotten behind with his deadlines for this year’s crops.
“Katherine can you please come out and help, I need some extra hands to get this work done.”
“What can I do hon?” she replied with tenderness in her eyes.
“Can you please start pulling the ears off of these stalks? I will be in the tractor getting the last bit of the field.”
Michael left and climbed into the tractor. He felt bad for making his wife work; she normally didn’t when their son was here. But he was drafted and now gone. The afternoon was sweltering hot.
An hour passed. Michael was almost done. He glanced over at Katherine to see how she was doing. Horror struck his face. She was sprawled, lying on the ground. He quickly dashed from the tractor and ran 75 yards to her. Approaching her he found that she was still breathing but not moving.
“Katherine, Katherine can you hear me?” he moaned.
Feeling her face, and seeing vomit next to her, he knew what was going on. She had passed out from heat stroke. Worried he tried to wake her.
“Katherine can you hear me?” with urgency.
She stirred.
Knowing he must lower her body temperature, he ran to get a bucket of water. Upon coming back to his dear one, he grabbed his handkerchief and splashed it into the cool water. Lightly he placed it on her forehead. Her skin was dry, and red. How long had she been like this?
“Michael, what is going on? Why am I out here? Where is Art?”
“Katherine, let’s get inside now.”
“But where is Art?”
“He’s on his ship, remember? He’s in the Pacific fighting. Come sweetie, we need to get you inside.”
Michael helped her up, put her arm around his neck and they walked slowly back to the house.
A few hours passed and she was still incoherent, hot, and sick to her stomach.
“Where is Art? I want to talk with Art.”
“Katherine he is out in the Pacific on his ship. Now rest, you need your sleep,” Michael said as he stroked her hair, and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
Michael continued to calm her down, and to get her body back to normal. Slowly she did relax and fall to sleep. He watched her as she slept. Getting heavy-eyed himself, he dozed off.
Abruptly he woke and looked at his wife. She lay there, motionless and cold. He felt her and knew that she was gone. Weeping he grabbed her hand and laid his head on her chest.
―
Michael woke up with a numbing sweat running down his face and hot tears in his eyes. Sitting up he looked out of the windshield and saw the glittering stars overhead. With a silent sob he started the truck. Wiping his eyes he glanced into his rearview mirror. Taped on the mirror was a small self portrait done by Katherine. He looked into her amorous, hazel eyes. He looked down and laid his head on the steering wheel.
“Katherine I am so sorry I made you come out that day. Why did I do that?” he said with tears pouring out of his eyes and a few sniffles.
He glanced back up at the picture and looked deep into her eyes. He saw warmth, love, and sympathy. A voice came into his head,
“It was never your fault. Don’t be sad. I love you.”
The load he felt was lifted. He felt at peace with his loss of his wife. He knew he would one day see her again. He knew their love for each other was everlasting. With one last glance at the painting he smiled, turned on his headlights, and drove home.