Original Creative Piece

Unforeseen Innocence

The Man awoke up early Sunday morning to the earliest crows of the rooster; as timely as they had ever been: not too early, and not too late.  He rolled out of bed, not as easy as it once had been, and pulled on his overalls, seemingly smaller than they used to be.  There were chores to be done on the farm, and he had done them year after year, after his children had left, and his wife had passed on.  There were easier ways to get things done: he could hire a hand, or sell the farm, but this is what he had known his whole life, and he wouldn't give it up.  There were certain things that stuck to a man, after a while, things that you couldn't just up and stop doing after all these years.

He was not a stupid man, but simple.  He had lived a simple, quiet existence his whole life: was born on this farm, was raised there, went to school, became a hand, had gone out west, and come back when his father passed away; he met a girl, fell in love, and had his children.  This place is what he knew.  He knew how to work it and what to do on it: how to coax a foal into place, or when to shift the hen house so that they knew when the sun rose.  So this is what he would do.  It was only a matter of time until he would have to slow down, there were things he already couldn't do, and everything was getting harder.  Even waking up was becoming an ordeal.

Soon he would go back to the house and wash up.  Change into his Sunday best, and make himself presentable: one more tradition to carry on.  He wasn't a particularly persuaded man, but his wife had insisted that they attend the chapel every Sunday, and it had stuck.  He gave his time, and paid his penance, and hoped his wife thought good of him from above.  He would say "hello" to the same people he always had for the last 30 years, and then he would go home.

The dog had died a few year back, so now it was only him now.  The danged thing had kicked the bucket right under the porch, so he'd had to pull him out.  It was his wife's dog, and she's always loved the thing to death, but he paid no particular mind to it.  He fed it and watered it, and pet it in the evening.  But all was quiet in the house now.  He didn't buy into the newfangled "Tele," that he had seen in town, it seemed like you were paying to watch what you could listen to perfectly well on a radio, without having to strain your eyes.

Today was a Sunday, and his wife had always told him to stay clear on the Sabbath and to mind it, so it meant no evening drink with dinner.  He would listen to the baseball game on the radio, and read the paper that he had grabbed in town that morning, he would read about people he had known his whole life, some of them passing away.  He had always known his time would come at some point, and he hoped that it would come while he slept, but until that day came, he would wake up and go about the life he had always known.  Without guile, simple; not so apparently innocent on the outside.  He would take life as it came, and continue as he always had.  Innocent.