Rise

Legs crossed, they sat bent over the creaking teak table, the top worn from years of scrubbing.  The fare was simple, simpler by the year, their need for variety a thing they required less with time.  Now it was rice, mainly, a few pickled vegetables, a small piece of fish, the plain meal enough.

The wooden hashi with which they slowly picked up the small bites were well-used, worn dull as knives good only for slicing soft things now.

There was little left to them now.  Mostly fading memories of what had happened.  This small house built just for two.  The line stopped with them, their possessions few.  A small collection of items that their neighbor could pack up quickly.

“So do we understand everything now,” she asked, looking up from the bowl.

He nodded.

Tapping his chopsticks against the bottom of the bowl, he evened them out.  He lifted a last piece of fish to his mouth, stopped to examine it.

“This was very good fish,” he said, pulling it gently from the wooden tips with his teeth.

She nodded.

“The important thing is that we understand,” she said.  “If we understand, then all will go well.”

“With focus,” he added.

She picked up the last grain of rice, realizing it was the last one.  A clean plate always looks good, she thought.  It shows appreciation for a meal.  For everything, really, up to that very second of life.

He looked over at her plate.  His was clean as well.

“Time to go?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, giving him a small smile.

He smiled too.

Together they rose and headed toward the front door, hand in hand.

“Maybe I should wash the dishes,” she said.

He shook his head. “Leave them,” he said.

She pointed to a clock on the wall.  “That clock was always too loud,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

He remembered an airplane ride they’d taken once.  She recalled the time they’d climbed all those miles to the top of the mountain behind their home.

They squeezed hands and walked out, closing the door behind them.