A Rural Idyll

Abstract

Perspective The NEW ENGLA ND JOURNAL of MEDICINE n engl j med nejm.org 1 M ichael stepped out the door, feeling the dark morning air on his cheeks. He walked a few steps down the path made from old slabs. Forty years of his morning routine were worn into the limestone, and each morning he would look down and see the rivulet of time running into the stones of the backyard, cobbled by some previous owner, picked up over years from the sliding edges of the sea that always hung in the distance. He did not like the sea, because poverty had forced him across it to England, keeping him there for 20 years. He walked into the center of the yard and stopped again. A row of old, red-brick sheds faced him, rough roofed and given basic repair but never improved. He had painted them with lime wash many years ago, not again, and the lack of guttering had allowed little green streaks to dribble down like icicles above the doors. The sea passage had left something of him behind in Mayo, prevented it from coming with him, and despite all his life's doings he had never recovered those parts. In the gap grew only an unyielding desire to return and find a place to hold against this strange world. He tightened the strap on his overall and went to the biggest shed, where he kept his sow. Before he reached it, he could hear the snuffling and snouting of the litter. When he entered, he felt almost replete, drawing it in, down to his very being. This morning routine was as close to satisfaction as he ever got, but he had never known contentment. A couple of hens had followed him in and were pecking around his feet. He then went to the hen-house, leaving the sow, huge and supine, letting the piglets fight for her teats. When he was breathing the air in the shed, he opened one of the laying boxes and collected the eggs. His large hand could hold five or six, and he brought them into the kitchen. Rose was there. He had not granted her a word in many years. They shared the empty space, childless. He washed his hands at the old square ceramic sink. When he sat down, he laid his hands palm down on the wooden table, the knots in the wood standing up after years of scrubbing the surface clean. He waited silently for a few moments, then pushed the cup and saucer away from him. Rose came over from the range carrying the teapot, poured carefully, and then went to get his breakfast from the warming oven. She brought the plate to the table and laid it quietly between his knife and fork. He ate steadily, then finished the cup of tea and pushed it away again. Rose refilled it, left it on the range, and went out. Co-Winner of the 2 0 22 NEJM Medic al Fic tion Contes t