Amos

Amos         12-18-2013

By John W. Vander Velden

Some call it a cozy room – others dingy.  The first glimpse of faded wall paper, with its once cheerful patterns now diminished to slight contrasts of brownish grays, or the worn coffee colored rug that shows pathways of frequent footsteps leading to and from closed doors, might fuel a person’s opinion.  The room is simply furnished with two green upholstered chairs that do not match by either color or style, a small round glass topped table that holds a lamp and a single shiny metal framed photograph of a woman, apparently in her thirties.  The space contains little else other than a brown porcelain covered Segler oil heater, burning ferociously, yet unable to completely chase the damp chill beyond the walls.  Behind the Segler, above the space that long ago would have been a fireplace, now filled with concrete painted beige to approximate the walls coverings,  stands a cream painted mantle with  a collection of small photographs,  two teenage boys and three young ladies of varying ages separated by small figurines, a white angel with pleading eyes, a black and white cat, that if one stared at that cat long enough it would seem to grin, and a boxer, the pup crouching down, face forward as if anticipating the toss of a ball for it to fetch.

The space is occupied by a single old man seated in a green chair.  Amos Fenton, dressed in a hand knitted red sweater, the boldest color in the room, over a deep green shirt, wearing olive colored work trousers and heavy grays socks.  The man sits motionless, his newspaper spread across his lap.  The paper does not hold Mr. Fenton’s attention for the man‘s eyes, face the mantle across the room.  Yet his gaze is further, not trapped by walls.  A few moments pass and Amos’ distant eyes begin to return to his surroundings.  Shaking his head ever so slightly the old man slides his fingers through the neatly combed stiff white hair, which may have thinned over the years but still covers his head.

Amos turns to his right and smiles as he views the picture at his elbow.  Gingerly he lifts the framed print and stares into the eyes of the woman’s image.  The old man draws a deep breath and allows it to slip out with a sigh.  He glances up to the pictures upon the mantle, allowing another sigh to slip past tight lips.  The old man whispers as once again he faces the photo he holds in shaky hands.   “I’m well my dear.  They’re fine – all healthy and happy, best I can tell – all five of them.”

Amos embraces the silver framed photograph of his wife Ellen, as a single tear slides down his cheek, and with a trembling smile, allows a few soft words to slip into the room.  “Yes, dear it’s been a good year – Merry Christmas my love.”

(483 Words)