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The years ground away. Content, if not happy, she had dwelt alone. Her life became a simple ritual of sameness. The interminable tread of her rocker rungs wore wrinkles in face of her sloping porch. Except for a tiny plot of vegetables, a few chickens, and one cow, the land lay fallow now. She had ceased to fight the river. And it had never again tried to dislodge her. Many an hour she had sat here, her slate colored wooden rocker creaking its voice out to the dingy river, the river answering with its constant drone. Often she spoke aloud to her river,- phrases fraught with feelings, like those which pass between lifelong mates. And it spoke to her in return, only to her. ‘Easy, Easy,’ the rambling river droned to her!. Chattering of the buts and might-have-beens in the lives of those it touched on its winding, wandering way to her and then away again. She tried to recall how old she was. But with no one there to remind her, with no change in the steady crawl of days, she had no. ‘G’day most cherishied Mr. Bigguns!’ spoke the Scot, ever so loudly, his bushy eyebrows raised in a sprightly, unkempt and altogether friendly way. ‘Sir…’ I said humbly, with but a trace of reticence, my inflamed brain again beginning to rebel against the boisterousness of his demeanor. ‘Aye, I ken see ya’r most unlively this morning by the redness of yer eye, my good friend, by the paleness of yer skin, surely the absinthe from last evenings soiree has taken a toll upon yer frail English body!’ Unsure if he was in jest or not, I replied, politely, ‘Sir, will you do me the honor of entering into my humble abode, for my maidservant is disposed of the moment and I find that I must answers the calling visitor this morning.’ ‘Aye, most cherished, most cherished, certainly my friend, and thank’ee.’ In we came and in taking his coat and staff, I could see the walking pole was capped by a great shining knob, a solid silver rapper atop in the likeness of a woman’s torso, the great mammaries.
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