He creaked forward on his wooden chair, staring out into the evening through rheumy eyes. The two rockers were positioned close together on the front porch, surrounded by a lush tangle of flowers. In the perpetual daylight of July, his wife had bent over the garden beds and breathed life into the perennials, the lilies springing from the cracked earth, the creeping tendrils of sunflowers climbing hungrily towards the sun.

“The flowers are wonderful this year, Alice.” He rested his hand on the carved wooden armrest of the rocker beside him, worn from his wife’s touch over the years. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply. The scent of late roses permeated the air, settling thickly on his tongue with the cloying sweetness of honey. He pictured Alice sitting on the porch steps, her old straw hat throwing deep shadows across her creased face as she tended to the ivy winding around the peeling wooden rails.

The windchimes hanging from the porch rafters swung in the light breeze, their soft bell-like tones rising through the cooling air. The man opened his eyes, shifting his gaze upwards towards the melody. “Do you remember when we bought those?” he asked, turning back to his wife’s chair and gesturing at the chimes. “It was the summer we moved back here from the city.” He nodded, staring pensively out across the yard at the street. Memories clouded his eyes, shadowy cataracts burned into his vision.

On the faded asphalt of the road, a little boy wobbled precariously behind his mother on a yellow bicycle. He braked and skidded to a halt at the edge of the lawn, staring curiously at the man on the porch. “Mommy, who is he talking to?” the boy asked loudly, his voice light with childish ignorance.

His mother rushed back towards him as the old man looked up, eyes unfocused. “Shh, honey,” she reprimanded. “It’s not polite to stare. Come on, it’s time to go home.”

The man watched as the boy disappeared down the street into the dusk, fading into the shadows. “Let’s go inside, Alice.” He rose laboriously from the rocker. “It’s getting dark.”

He brushed his fingers over the back of his wife’s chair and slowly crossed the creaking floorboards of the porch. The door to the house slammed shut behind him as he stepped inside, shaking the rafters and sending the lonely melody of the bells chiming out over the empty porch.