Burning Bill
Every morning she sat at the kitchen table in front of the
large window overlooking the slopping garden. She placed a match box and a
glass of water by a thick porcelain plate. She smoothed her apron and sat
straight, looked around the yard and set her hands flat upon the tablecloth.
Shallow breath and vacant gaze, she grabbed a twenty dollar bill out of her
pocket, lit the match and gently caressed the paper money with the growing
flame. When the fire reached her fingers, she let the white dish receive the
last of the sacrificial ash and then
she rose to go about her day.
The woman knew the intimate feel of crisp bills, placed face
up, smoothed and stretched in little white envelopes for each purpose; to pay
the propane man, the electric company, the taxes. That was all she needed. With
the passion of an ascetic she had saved many a small fortune over years. She
loved the sound of stiff paper, the sound of enough, just enough.
No one had grown hungry around her but many had taken
advantage of her generous skills; a chicken here, a bushel of potatoes there,
and perhaps she could dole a dollar for whatever? Oh yes, she gave a few of her
precious pieces of paper to worthy projects. Mostly she made gifts for those in
need, never wasting nor giving others a chance to do so.
She feared neither wind nor pain, she performed her rituals
in the spring, waking up the earthen plot. None went needy by her, first her
man, then the chickens, the cat, the rabbits and the occasional goat. She fed
her little world, and went to work at local farms.
In winter she painted by the north facing window where
diffused light calmed her eye and soothed her anxious mind. Then everyone
wanted her pictures, she obliged the few, kept some for the county fair, saving
profits for appliances and perhaps an emergency.
This small woman framed in the large window, burning the
last twenty dollar bill of the month at dawn. Passing mirrors as if they held
no image, this woman listening for silence.
That’s how she remembers Bill, the man who used to watch her
dress and put her socks on, slowly. He would bring her shoes wordlessly before
she left to go to town to fetch his needs at the store, every day, sometimes
twice a day and on mean days three times.
The grass is greener now under bare feet on the lone path. Flowers
bloom among her carrots and peppers. Nothing else has given a clue to her loss.
Her eyes are drier, her hair thinner over this plate, his plate, where she
sacrifices one more, one last wrinkled token of his absent need.
