He could scarcely follow the conversation. It was faint, fading.
"Circulatory collapse beginning. It was inevitable, I'd say."
"Damn. Who's telling them?"
"It ought'a be me. Unless you just want to. Have you seen who's out there?"
"The wife, two brothers and some of their family... His daughter, I think."
"Wife first, I suppose. What's her name, d'you know? Lilly? Lilly. Right, here we go."
"Hey, good luck. I'll buy you a coffee later."
"Thanks."
The room faded from the man's senses.
...
A tree slowly swims into view beside him, one of the tall weeping willows that grew... no, that grows still, here behind his old home in Missouri. Whip-like branches sway before him, all covered in rows of pea-green buds and yellow star-like flowers, sweeping to the ground. He brushes aside the trailing streamers and looks out toward the two wide orchards, peaches and apples, where uncle Robert's walking the rows and smelling the blossoms. It's just as he remembered it, all those years ago. Seems like ages. Same trees, same air.
There is the house, the little gray-white building he spent so many years in, its faded clapboards with every curling leaf of paint in its proper place, its half-open windows curtained in fluttering printed cotton, and cool, dim rooms behind, so familiar that every tiny detail courses across his mind like water over stones. The kitchen with its cracked and broken tiles, the front room, quiet, comfortable, upright piano against the wall, that lace-edged throw spread across the top and the bouquet of dried flowers in the pewter vase on top of that, then across the creaking floorboards and up the stairs to the bedroom, their bedroom, the brass bedstead with the quilted down spread, Lilly's little framed watercolor of a prairie landscape...
A distant rumble rolls and echoes around him. He scans the horizon, sees thunderheads building in the west. Washing swings crazily on the line. There's electricity in the air, and a cool wind coming up. He raises his arms and lets the air play through his hair, enjoying as always the approach of the storm, the tang in the breeze, the peculiar quality of the light with its diffuse bluegreen glow making the farmhouse and the darkening forest look so vital, so intense.
A gust of wind sets the tree tops swaying with a sound like breaking waves. The smell of distant lilacs. Apple blooms.
In the meadow under the darkening sky stands Lilly, the wind swirling her dress around her. She's dancing and twirling through the grass, laughing, turning her face to the wind.
The horizon surges with gray-black clouds. A drop of rain strikes his face.
He dashes across the meadow toward her, the wind setting shining waves racing through the long grass. Another rain drop. The air is alive, crackling. It'll be a storm to remember. Breathless he reaches her, clasps her hands, catches her up, laughing.
The air is roaring, swirling, full of leaves, blossoms, sailing droplets, the sky is black, clouds boiling, darkening. Before his eyes in the failing light is Lilly, her calico dress dancing, flapping around her slender arms and legs, her black hair floating wildly around her face, her face, smiling, green eyes, shining, the scent of her perfume, lilacs, her face, Lilly, Lilly...
Lilly!
...
