Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Make each day your masterpiece.' John Wooden

It has been six months since I returned from Sudan. Sometimes the best part of a long trip is coming home, which was especially true for this one. I had spent the entire flight thinking of the last ten days in the context of my whole life. At one point, a child had cried on the plane because a cherished teddy bear was left in the terminal, and I was reminded of Ruth's rant.

I have resumed my routine. It is Sunday, my day off, and also treat day; I indulge in Captain Crunch with my morning coffee. I feel a nudge on my calf; it is Sol, my wiener dog, hoping I would intentionally drop a morsel. I accidentally do so with my last spoonful, and slurp the leftover milk from the bowl, as if it was a cup.

I am aware of being watched; Sam is staring at me from the armchair. I am irritated because he ignores the expensive pet pillow I bought him.

He opts to sit in my perch, as if we were fighting for territory. I suspect he is a reincarnation of Jynx.

The BBC is rambling on in the background; there was an election somewhere, and the opposition is disputing the results.

I get up, pour some milk into the cat's bowl, and grab the leash. Sol is at the door, his tail wags like a fast windshield wiper.

With my jacket, hat, and scarf on, we venture outside into the clear cold day. The light snow from last night crunches under my boots. Jack is outside. He waves, and I cross the street. Six months ago, he invaded my house the day I arrived back from Sudan.

***

I had hauled my suitcase upstairs, and decided to order a pizza. A knock at the door immediately sent my heart racing. 

I opened it, and was shocked to see Jack; it was like opening a jar of jam and having flowers pop out.

Jack helped me out.

"Hallooo neighbour." He pushed past me into my house. I was stunned, but managed to compose myself.

"Coffee?" I tried to sound nonchalant. I noticed a bottle of Bordeaux, Grand Cru in one hand, and a sleeping wiener puppy in the crook of his other arm.

"I thought we could share this wine, and have a chat."

I didn't like the sound of this. We have never chatted, and the sudden need to do this was unnerving.

"Don't trouble yourself, point me to the corkscrew and glasses."

He dumped the puppy into my arms where it lazily opened an eye, looked at me, yawned, and went back to sleep.

"Do you remember Ginger?" he asked rhetorically, "well, she's long gone, but this is one of her grandpuppies," he said, making up a word that I easily understood.

"I often think of that day when Kelly met Ginger. " He stopped and looked up at the ceiling, "The two of them looked so happy. I have never seen anything like that again, and it's my go-to memory to make me smile." Strangely, I had to agree.

Jack rummaged my drawers, found the opener, and deftly uncorked the Bordeaux. He found some glasses over the sink on his first cupboard attempt, and poured two generous servings.

I noticed that we weren't decanting the wine, but there was urgency to Jack's trespassing.

"Pal, let me get straight to the point. We've had some sad changes around here." He took a healthy swig from his glass. I took a sip.

"Ruth finally kicked the bucket," he said, with a hint of sadness. His blunt words didn't surprise me; she would have expected nothing less, I suspect.

I refrained from saying 'sorry for your loss' and was pleased with myself for it. I should have felt sympathy for Jack losing a friend, but I had no more left. I was full of sorrow, and needed to empty that tank a little.