Trudging

          

  
           Miles, a master at untangling computer messes and dealing with unsatisfying and frustrating paperwork, finished typing the documents that would make Miss Kitty the sole owner of the cabin at the top of Marijuana Knob. Harold and Miles had agreed that a quick deed was the best way to handle the arrangements, and a lawyer had already come by the cabin and notarized the deed to the house.

            Harold, exhausted from materializing a full hour in the presence of a lawyer, faded slowly. Soon, the only sign that he was still present was the rocking of his favorite chair.

            “Can you call Rex Mayo and ask him if he can repair the fencing around the pasture,” Harold said.

            “Absolutely,” Miles said, moving to his iPhone and sending Rex a text message.

            “And perhaps hire him as a property manager, so he’ll be on call for Miss Kitty after we’re gone.”

            Miles looked at the invisible chair, which creaked just like Harold’s bony knees. Miles could feel Harold’s presence fading. The air tasted like acorns, and the air seemed to glisten like the frost on a fall morning.
           "And tell him we need a work truck with a plow."
           Miles, surprised that at the clarity of Harold's thoughts and his generousity in making sure that the cabin was set up for Miss Kitty, Miss Patches, and eventually, for Miles in his next life, rubbed his nose, pretending to sneeze in order to swipe the tears out of his beady black eyes.

            “I’ve begun transferring the money to your favorite organizations and nonprofits,” Miles said, “Angelsover Sandpoint, Kinderhaven, Festival at Sandpoint, NAMI, Bonner Partners inCare Clinic Inc, Pend Oreille Arts Council, and the Panhandle Animal Shelter.”

            “Thank-you, Miles,” Harold said. “And you’ve transferred some money to your account, and to Miss Kitty?”

            “Yes, of course,” Miles replied.

            “I’m so tired,” Harold said. “I think I’ll trudge upstairs and take a nap. Miles, I have one more request. Could you read ‘Luke Havergal’ when you bury me next to Lilith?”

            Miles, surprised that Harold remembered the poem, was speechless. He nodded his head yes, his eyes blurring with more wretched tears.

            “Oh Miles,” Harold said. “Parting is such sweet sorrow. You have been an amazing friend.”

            The chair stopped creaking, the smell of acorns disappeared, and the air felt dry.