And Today is Thursday

This was the product of an exercise i began one morning. I would attempt to write one story every morning. Soon that exercise became tedious so i decided i would attempt writing a story throughout the day in bits and pieces. Enjoy.


She was now on to preparing the turnips. She vigilantly washed each one. Under the faucet, the cool morning water ran down through her brittle hands. Her husband had picked these only a few weeks ago. Cultivated from their garden in the far back beyond their little house, the turnips were beginning to wither. She cut the roots and leaves, and gently placed them on her small wooden cutting board.
A little about the Husband: he was an avid gardener. Countless mornings he rose to check his stock. The luscious cucumbers and ripe tomatoes blossomed from their vines. The old man would clip them so gently as if he felt guilty for what he’d done: taking these herbs from the earth, from a garden that had fed him and his family for decades. He owed something to that small, fruitful plot of soil he’d tilled so long ago. After he’d picked his share for the day making his way back to the house, he enjoyed the morning’s brisk air and soft dew. Past the apple trees, past the shed that housed his tools and tobaccos (a habit he’d done well to hide from his wife the last few years,) he soon came up on the house that sheltered them since their wedding day. He’d wash them once with a garden hose at the back of the house so he could gaze into the tomato’s lush shining red. At the door, he kicked off his shoes: ensuring he wouldn’t track the forgiving soil into the house. This was her domain.
She thought about him a lot these days. His smile, the way he grinned for fifty years every morning when he presented his bounty to her. “Gettin’ colder out every day,” he’d murmur behind her as she’d wash each vegetable and place them in his air tight mason jars, (a collection of which he’d grown quite fond of over the years.) It was getting colder, every day the breeze seemed more chilled than the last. She recognized this more than anything now. Pulling a knife from the drawer she began slowly peeling the turnips. They shed their skins into the sink. With the sweet flakes gathering in a pile, she pushed them down into the deep black hole in the center. Running the water, she flicked the switch above the counter, and in the abysmal noise that shook the house and silenced her thoughts, the skins disappeared forever.
With the turnips peeled, she began chopping them tightly into small cubes. A great handful this made, surely more than enough she thought to herself. She shifted her attention to the boiling pot of water resting on the stove. She brushed the turnips in, listening to the delicate plop of each solitary cube hitting the water and sinking to the bottom. She stirred the pot for a century or two, admiring the mixing and swirling of the produce, her senses embraced it.
She thought of his eagerness, when he’d get to the table inside their quaint little kitchen after picking up sticks from the yard. They’d sit together, a perfect beginning to the day when they looked up from their meals and catch each other’s eyes. Old and fragile now, they smiled and reached across the table to where their hands would meet and their fingers would cross each other’s. This was their morning routine.
With the soup finally cooled, she picked a bowl from above the counter. With a wooden ladle, she scooped the soft fragrant soup into the bowl. She always took the most of the turnips. It was her favorite of his garden after all. He didn’t care too much for turnips himself, but knew how much she appreciated his effort to grow the simple root. She took a pitcher of cranberry juice from the refrigerator placed it on the table. She reached up high to take a smaller glass from the top shelf of the cabinet and took her seat at the kitchen table. She loved the way the cranberry juice tasted in the morning, always cold and fresh, with a hint of bitterness that spiced her tongue and calmed her thoughts. She spooned the turnips into her mouth. The sweet aroma and taste brought something of emotion to her when she looked across the table. She became accustomed to seeing that smile. Those withered eyes chiseled by the sun and harsh wind. There was nothing she wanted more this day, than to reach across the table to find his warm hand in the center.