The Mud Room

His muddy rubber boots stood in the farmhouse mud room while he sat in the kitchen, unshaven, dealing solitaire. His wife (we called her Auntie) rolled out dough in the kitchen for a pie, put up preserves and tidied, clearing her throat. They listened to the TV at six, he with his fingers fumbling the hearing aids, she watching the kitchen clock. Old age went on like that, a vegetable patch, a horse some neighbor kept in the barn, the miles of grass and fences. After he died his boots stood muddy in the mud room as if he'd gone in socks, softly out to the meadow.