Enga mellom fjella

All the roads are closed

All the roads are closed. Snow drifts along the line of pines and fills in last week's ruts. All life rests hushed, the only muffled sound a helicopter overhead on its way to the hospital.

"Another one."

"Yes."

The old man stirs his coffee as his son makes three bologna sandwiches. Two for his old man he seems so thin and one for himself.

"I'll need to go out and shovel soon."

"No, dad."

"I need to do something, maybe clear the path before they come for me."

Every day the same conversation over coffee, breakfast, dinner, supper. We have enough in the pantry for two months. No need to go out.

"Maybe I'll do a crossword instead."

After the plates are washed there isn't anything to do. It's just the two of them. It's not like they have a horse or a half a dozen pigs like years ago. Just an old house on a farm slowly returning to the sod.

"Think Mabel will stop by?"

"Doubt it."

Mabel hadn't stopped by in a year. They'd hear about her now and again. The diner was always full of gossip on rainy summer days.

They hadn't gone into town since then.

Another muffled sound.

"Wonder what that is."

"Maybe they're plowing the road."

"Better get the walk cleared then if they're coming to take me."

"No dad," he said softly as he guided his father back to his chair.

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