Warm Hearts – Frosty Days

In their small, humble bungalow on a late October morning, an old married couple stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the window. Outside, the first frost of the season had painted delicate patterns on the edges of the glass. The wife shivered, wrapping her cardigan a little tighter around herself.

The husband, ever the thoughtful one, passed her a steaming mug of tea. She held it tight, feeling the warmth seeping into her chilled fingers. With a contented sigh, she remarked, “I’m glad we got those prize dahlias and begonias inside last weekend. The frost would have done them in otherwise.”

The couple continued to gaze outside at the frost-kissed world. There was a nip in the air and their desire to go out was tempered by the icy marks on the windscreen of the car. It had transformed the ground into a treacherous, glistening surface.

The husband looked at his wife. ”Might not be worth going out. Don’t want to fall and come a cropper.” She nodded in agreement, still entranced by the intricate frost patterns on the foliage outside. The tiny icicles had zagged the leaves with dagger shapes and outlined the spider webs delicately with white spray.

The old man shuffled around, searching in a spare kitchen drawer for his driving gloves. After a bit of rummaging, he found them and held them close to his chest. “We can always pop out later if the sun melts this frost away.” His hands were already cold and tinged with a slight bluish hue due to arthritis and bad circulation. He knew he looked old, but his wife didn’t say anything about it. She merely sniffed and continued to admire the winter painting outside.

She glanced at the thermostat and decided to turn up the heating by a degree. “The weatherman says this is just the start of it.”

She gazed down at the photograph of their extended family on the windowsill and smiled. Happy faces smiled back. Next to the frame a small puddle of water pooled as the ice melted from the heat of the radiator.

“Pass me some kitchen towel,” she asked her husband. She had to repeat herself. He grunted and looked around for the roll which was not on their little breakfast table as usual. He wandered off to the pantry. “There’s damp in here,” he shouted back at her. “That needs sorting. Mould will spread else.”

He returned with a new roll of kitchen towel and tore a sheet off. She sighed and took it from him, gently wiping up the cold water from the sill.

“Pass me some more, one sheet isn’t enough.”

He was now fiddling with the wireless. Her voice had to compete with the static from the old radio. He muttered in acknowledgement and started towards the table. This time he plonked the whole roll beside her, picking up her half-drunk mug for a refill. As he walked away he began chuntering about the need to address the damp in the pantry once again. She watched him for a moment before gently wiping the remaining drops away, smiling again at the photograph of their family basking in sunnier climes.

Inktober 2023

31 Days – 31 Drawings -31 Tales