Three Bags Full

Eustace Greeley was old. Old like shady pine trees and half buried boulders. Old as legend and myth. His face was worn and creased like ancient Sumerian shoe leather, yet his eyes shone and darted about like shooting stars. He did not move quickly these days, but he moved with purpose.

Most days, that purpose was to head down to the Atwash Senior’s Center to hold court with the other local fossils in waiting. Lunch was cheap, the coffee was tolerable, and the company bearable. Today, though, was different. As soon as he walked through the door, he felt an electricity he hadn’t felt in decades, maybe even centuries. He stood a little taller, breathed a little deeper, energized by the tingling in his spine. His shoulders shuddered, and a smile lifted his cheeks like tent poles.

He nodded and waved to his familiars as he shuffled through the building, preoccupied by the pull of his internal compass as it sought the wellspring of ancient energy. Passing through the lounge, he grabbed a coffee. He took a little longer than usual to stir in his two packets of sweetener, using the time to survey the faces in the room. His stomach spun and dropped like gymnasts on speed when he saw her.

She sat against the wall, knitting. Her bony, confident fingers danced the needles in their endless elliptical patterns, never dropping a stitch. Eustace took a seat next to her, and she smiled.

“Long time no see, Eustace. It took some doing to find you, you know. I’m down to the last skein of your wool. Got anything for me?”

He took a moment to drink her in, like cool mountain spring water. Her hair, thick and wavy as always had turned almost pure white. Broad streaks of granite gray and slightly lesser swaths of midnight black twisted around her head from the temples and up into a loose bun. The hint of crows feet at the outset of her eyes only accentuated them, pointing to their cerulean brilliance.

“Been some time since I kept a flock. Not since the sun rose in the north and set in the south.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You old timers love that line. Like time excuses and explains everything.”

“Now, Aggie. You’re no spring chicken yourself, If I remember correctly. Still have those snap-shots of the dinosaurs in your purse?”

They both laughed, followed by a heavy silence. She knit, he sipped his coffee. She sighed, and stilled her needles to pull a length of wool from her bag, and continued. “I only thought it right that I find you and let you know. I’ll have to pull it apart and start again, perhaps as soon as next week.”

Eustace nodded. All beginnings had an end, just as all ends have a beginning. The unraveling was the worst. It made him feel hollow inside, and frightfully cold. It was disorienting to the point that gravity was nothing more than a rumor, and sunshine a pale myth. still, it could not be avoided. Time to move on, find a new place to grow up and grow old all over again.

“I appreciate you coming by, Agnes. I best be getting home, then. I have some packing to do.”

“There’s a nice town north of here, maybe a hundred miles or so. It’s a farming community. This time around, you could maybe get a few acres and some sheep.” She blushed, resting the needles in her lap. She reached out and put a hand on his arm. “If I had more of your wool, we could grow old together. There aren’t many of us left you know.”

He was a sucker for the sparkly eyes, every time around. He finished his coffee, listening to the rhythmic paso doble of her needles, pondering the situation. “So,” he asked, “how much and what color?”