Old Lady

Night. A woman, old. She lives alone in that house. It used to be a small house, many a year ago, when her sons ran around, playing, screaming, singing, laughing, crying. The sons are gone. All the six of them. The older boys she lost to war. The rest married and went to the city, where there are opportunities and work. On the old town only the elder still live, in houses like this one, of wood and rock. She lived there all her life, gave birth to her sons there and raised them there. Her husband, now long dead, had been born not too far, second son to a farmer family. He left the town only for war, not the one that took her sons, the one before. The day he left, he asked her in marriage, and two years later was back to keep his promise. Sometimes she looks at the ring in her finger and smiles, remembering. She lived alone, not even a pet to keep her company. It is just her, the house and the ghosts. She knows them quite well, been living with them for so long. There's Creaky, that makes doors creak, Drippy, that makes faucets drip, Howlly, that howls at night, The One In The Cellar, and so many more. More than once she tried to count them, but she always loses count somewhere between fifteen and twenty. Right now, as we speak, she is on the kitchen. The radio is on, playing some old thirties music and she's mixing the soup while keeping up with rhythm. When the music ends, she tastes the soup and serves a plate. She sits at the old table, eating the soup slowly. Music still plays and the tablecloth dances to the sound of it, the old woman rises her plate, and it leaves the table to dance more freely. She is watching, the soup getting cold on the plate, and the white cloth dances, changing shape to the music's beat, now a Elvis classic. A knock on the door and the tablecloth flies back to the table. The woman gets up and walks to the door, stops right before reaching it, and waits for it to open by itself. It's the next door neighbor, asking for salt. The old lady reaches for the a salt package that has been traveling to her hand for a few seconds already, and gives it to the old man "keep it" she says "I have more". With a smile she closes the door and gets back to the table. The cloth resumes it's dancing and keeps her company until it's time to sleep.
Morning. The house stands in the middle of nothing worth of mention, the neighbor's house some ten minutes away, walking time for a young man. The old lady is already up, in the back of the house, overseeing a pair of gloves that are picking up parsley and oregano and other assorted herbs. She isn't talking but the sound of the radio plays in the distance. The little basket where gloves have been placing the herbs flies to her. She looks inside, smiles and says "That should be enough. Can you get me some garlic too?" The gloves go a bit further away and return, each holding a garlic bulb, drop them inside the small basket and clap themselves clean. The woman now goes back inside, where a couple of knifes are busy taking the spines and skin off of a big fish. She sits down, asks one of them to turn the music's volume down, asks another to grab the old metal cauldron. She conducts them into cutting the fish, the herbs, the vegetables, the potatoes, and placing them inside the cauldron, previously filled with water and put in the fire that began some when in between.
Early afternoon. The cauldron still stands over the fire, a spoon mixing the food inside. The old woman is no where to be seen in the kitchen. The kitchen has a door to the outside and another one that leads to a small corridor with a door on each end only that connects to the house. A living room, a small bathroom, a guest room and stairs going up. Up we find another corridor, with sleeping rooms on each side and another flight of stairs leading upper, to the attic. She is there, sitting on the floor, surrounded by trinkets, books and closed chests. She cries over a picture of her dead husband. One of the chests opens, and out of it clothes fly away. A army officer's uniform stands in front of her, salutes her, and then extends a hand, inviting her to dance. "There is no music." The old vinyl collection stirs, and one of the records comes out of it's sleeve, landing on a ancient looking gramophone. The small crank starts spinning, and the music begins. A waltz. Not any waltz, her first dance at the weeding night. She dances for a while, until the sun slowly goes behind the hills. She now smiles instead of crying, and goes down the stairs happily.
Dinner time. A car stops at the door, on of those fashionable SUVs, dirt covered but recent. A woman sits inside while a man, on his early thirties, exits trough the other door. He goes around the car, opens the door to his wife and helps her out. Then they go the old house, he with happiness in his face, she with obvious disgust, always looking down, making sure she didn't step on a puddle of mud. The old lady waits them at the door, a real smile shinning on her lips. "Welcome my love!" she says. The man kisses her cheeks and enters. The two women greet each other. The old one with warmth and love, the young one with nothing but a fake smile. "Aunt" - the young woman says - "you should really move. This old house is too big for you! Don't you feel lonely?"
The old lady smile widens as she replies, winking at her son "No, not really. The ghosts keep me company."