Inside, a warm yellow light flickered across the tiled floor. He dried the plate with the old dish towel. Out the kitchen window, the black threatening clouds of the cold front edged across the sky. A storm was coming.
His thoughts were of a different time, different place. If only it was as simple as miles and years. The past will always be, unchangeable. The future an uncertainty.
He set the plate in the cupboard and picked up another unconsciously. The rhythm of a routine task, well honed, granting a faint glimmer of peace somehow.
Out of the hall closet, he took his battered blue raincoat and shrugged it on. He stood on the hardwood and looked at her sleeping. Reaching out a hand, he steadied himself, vision blurred. “Time to go, Melda,” he said, lifting his gray muzzled friend. With a trembling finger, the switch extinguished the warm light.
Written per challenge by Putting Words Together (150 words)