The Whale, Chapter Three.
Helga's idea was too extreme, like reenacting a bad dream, she decided, as she climbed back up and struggled through the gate, replacing the lock and crossing the lawn, as a pair of squirrels chased each other in spirals up the lonesome pine.
That was the name she and Joe had given that tree many years ago. when the house had fallen to them after their son-in-law Dan fell asleep at the wheel, and their daughter Liz remarried and left.
Liz's due date was approaching when Dan died, so Joe and Helga had moved in to help, and then just stayed and made the place less haunted by living out the grace left behind in the wake of sadness.
and now grief and love again entwined to make a new nest in Helga's heart for the coming and going of the seasons, the arrivals and departures of dreams.
Back inside, the coffee now cold, Helga zapped it, feeling bold from the warmth of the sun in her bones and the anger and hope for the election that was coming soon and that she preferred not to think too much about, but rather offer up to the gods.
The coffee downed, Helga summoned up the energy provided by the cup to climb the stairs up to the room her son Ben had lately occupied and where Ben had relocated Joe's rifle, a shotgun with flashlight duct taped to barrel that Joe had secretly kept under the bed.
Helga fumbled in her pocket for the key to the cabinet Ben had got for free from a gun enthusiast friend upgrading to a bigger safe for his collection in these disturbing post-insurrection days.
Turned the key in the lock and opened the door to find the shotgun waiting. Sorry, Joseph, but I don't want this gun lurking here and someday hurting someone," she said as she grabbed it by the barrel, closed the cabinet again, and left the key.
She lifted the heavy gun and sighted as if to shoot out the bathroom mirror, smiling at the flashlight jerry-rigged by her clever Joe.
