Gentle Hands VII

He sat himself in the dryweathered rockingchair. It felt light and cheap. Looking into the back of the front yard, remembering when the sky wasn't gray and the oak tree stood, folding his heavy forearms on his weakened stomach, he heard a gentle whisper or a brush on his cheek. He twisted quickly unfrightened to see the curtains swaying in the window to his back. On the lumpy glass of the window he could see the gravel road stretching, and everything seemed grey. Grey and empty, like that reflection, like the dead woman's face, the old wooden house. He decided to sit much longer, and strain again for that whisper.