Melancholy

She got out of bed, as always at 4.30 am. In the dark, she slowly groped about her work dress mended with colourful patches. With shaky hands she tied her apron around the waist. She had to throw it away soon. It looked as ragged as her dress and the thought of her daughter’s disapproving eyes made her giggle. After 20 minutes she was finally ready to get out of the house, but not before picking up her dark brown walking stick propped up against the wall.

She closed the door behind her and tried to straighten her stooping back while groaning with pain. At 84, her dangerously curved figure made her chin almost touch her chest. But despite her fragile frame and severe bone problems, she was still taking care of a whole farmstead.

There was no time for nonsense when she had to milk the cows, release the hens from the coop, feed the dogs and prepare breakfast. She’d hoped her good-for-nothing elder son would give her a hand, but he was still sleeping off the gallons of alcohol he had drunk the night before with that damn neighbour across the street.

The old woman picked up the bucket from the kitchen table and started towards the stables, her tiny frame barely visible in the wide, arid yard. She stopped to rest and looked into the distance at the reddish morning sky. The sun was rising from behind the quiet cemetery hill. Her house was situated on a slope and the entire village was unfolding in front of her eyes. She took a deep breath and felt the strong smell of linden flowers and dew fill her lungs.

Few things had changed in the past 84 years in this archaic God-forsaken place. Only the crosses in the cemetery multiplied while people got older and died. Otherwise, things went on unchanged. She was still cooking on a stove than ran on wood, the roads were still made of dust and river rocks, and the farmers were still working the land with horses and oxen.

In time the village had gotten smaller and smaller. Empty houses collapsed until no more than 15 families were left. Another 10 years and there would be nobody around, she thought to herself with sadness. This 500 year-old village would become a wild place again, with forests and vegetation covering the high hills and the decrepit buildings.

Tenderness and sadness filled her heart at the sight of her blue house with red pelargonium flowers in the windows. When she was gone, nobody would take care of her household. She thought of Peter, her husband, who had died of a brain tumour more than 43 years before. Her small, lively blue eyes welled with tears. She still missed him and lately she wished more and more she was up there on the hill, by his side.