The Silent Photograph

The Silent Photograph

G.J. Brillante

The white specks fell restlessly outside Mary’s solemn home. She moved her spotted and wrinkled hands over the warm kettle and released a mellow sigh. Her black cat gave a shrill moan as he scratched at the locked dreary blue door at the other end of the living room. Despite the cat’s pawing, the dreary blue door did not budge, so the cat went to rest beside the small fireplace.

The flames cackled mercilessly as Mary stared with silver eyes and a heavy frown at the pictures hanging loosely on the wall. She shuffled forward, her legs aching at each step. Mary tapped her white cane against the creaking floor and then against the dull wall. The paint on the walls, once a soft purple with dancing flowers, was now faded and peeling. The photo nearest her displayed a tall man in his forties with his right hand clasping hers. In the photo she was sitting with blue eyes staring vacantly ahead, and in her lap sat a young boy with wild frizzy hair and a lively smile. Mary pressed her dry blue lips against the freezing glass of the photo nearest her. The warmth of her breath blurred the image. Her tears rolled down her pale cheeks. Her eyes were heavy with remorse. Yet, when Mary pulled away from the photo, she swiftly wiped at her face with her ragged coat sleeve and slumped down into the nearest chair with a trembling smile.

The cat moaned louder and the snow pounded against the roof. Mary shuddered and pressed her hand against the cold surface of the wood. Her long grey hair crashed against her side as the strands slipped loose from her tight bun. The wind moaned and she could faintly hear the children at the church singing, “Silent Night.” The fire began to whimper in the fireplace, she shivered. Then, when all appeared silent, she heard a strange knocking at the door.

At first Mary remained silent and still. She asked herself, Who could possibly be visiting me at this hour?

Then, another knock sounded louder than the first. Mary gradually got up from her seat. She pinned her grey hair up and reached for her white cane. Mary made her way to the door and rested her hand upon the ice-cold doorknob.

Surely, she thought, I must be mistaken. She did not believe that a visitor would come at this hour amid a snowstorm. She thought with a sigh, There is no one to visit me.

However, as if to reassure her doubts and counter her grim resignation, a gentle voice called out, “Mary. Mary please, I'm freezing.”

Timidly, she opened the door and a blast of cold chilling air clashed against her face. Her silver eyes burned and she stumbled back. The person at the door caught her fall. He gripped her arms and pulled her upright to a stance. Then, he guided her tenderly over to the pink sofa in the living room. Mary heard him walk back to the door and listened as the wood creaked and the wind whirred until the soft thud of the door and click of the lock silenced the wailing snow. Her eyes stung and she attempted to rub them.

He grasped her hand and whispered, “Mary, please.”

She shivered, asking softly, “And who is my visitor?”

He laughed warmly and stomped away without a response. Mary heard his thick work boots slam against the solid floor. She listened as he rummaged through her wooden cabinets.

Suddenly, he exclaimed, “Aha.”

Mary trembled when she heard her little tea cups clink together. The man sat down beside her and offered her warm tea.

Mary thanked her strange visitor kindly, though her voice quivered and her hands shook as she took the cup. She was not used to having visitors and had not had one in well over twenty years. However, the warmness in her own home and the smallness of the town reassured her worries. She sipped from the cup and tasted the strong citrus mixed with a hint of sweet honey and fresh mint. The taste was so familiar.

“Who are you?” She was puzzled by the man.

He kissed her cheek and exclaimed with a hearty laugh, “Mary, have you forgotten your own husband’s voice?”

Her cheeks glowed a vibrant pink. “Harold?”

He massaged her freezing palms, and whispered, “Yes, Mary I am home at last.”

“How can this be?”

“I promised you that I would be home. I said I would come. Didn’t I?”

Bewildered, she shot upright and he jerked forward to catch her. Wildly she threw herself upon him, and cried out, “Then Harold, where is our boy?”

He guided her closer to the warm hearth, glowing benevolently in the living room. The purple walls sparkled with shining flowers. The snow harmoniously danced upon the roof. Icicles glowed and the children’s voices singing, “Silent Night,” sounded like the operatic cries of angels.

Then, she heard the loud creak of the floor and the fast paced tapping of feet. The dreary blue door swung open and crashed against the wall. A young boy with bright frizzy hair and an even brighter smile burst forward, shouting wildly, “Mom!”

Mary embraced him, her silver eyes lined with warm tears. Her cheeks burned a bright red and her brown hair fell gently at her side, her soft pink lips kissed the boy’s frizzy hair, and her warm hands patted his freckled cheeks.

She exclaimed with a brimming smile, “Harold, how can this be?”

Harold spun Mary around and the cat meowed with vitality. Her son rushed forward into the kitchen. She heard the cabinets fly open and tenderly scolded him with a gentle laugh. The boy ran back to her carrying a brightly wrapped rectangular present. Mary smiled and ran her fingers along the edges of the turquoise wrapping paper. She carefully unfolded the edges and untied the bow. She gasped, feeling the glass frame of a photograph with warm hands. Her eyes welled with a flood of tears. She hugged the boy close to her, and the silver of her eyes turned a gentle blue.

The boy whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mom!”

She whispered back, “Merry Christmas.”

Then, she coughed from the dust on the glass. Her silver eyes stung. She rubbed them with cold wrinkled hands. The fire hissed. The cat moaned. Mary slumped forward. The frame crashed to the floor and all returned to a silent night.