Portraits of The Songs | BON IVER

IX. Beth/Rest

He stirred the tea in her cup slowly, mind wandering around but never strayed too far from the thoughts of his half.

Sixty years together. And counting.

He smiled to himself, feeling warm, as he watched the tea twisted in the cup. He lifted the spoon from her cup, put it down the saucer and watched some more.

He rose up, wobbling, as he expected of her almost eighty year old body. They're barely able to hold themself together, almost spilled the tea on the way, but he's okay. He's just old, anyway.

He walked slowly down the hall of their house. Their sweet, nice house, where they raised their six children until one by one they moved away to start their own life.

So many things changed, but it's still home.

He knocked on the door three times before he opened it and went inside, never once forgetting to be careful so as not to spill the tea from the cup.

She laid there, peacefully, waiting for him with a smile.

"Harold," she called. And he chuckled in his old, roughly hoarse voice that had finally took its toll after decades of overuse.

"Here's your tea, darlin'," he said softly, almost in a whisper. But the soft look on her face told him that she had heard.

He gave her the cup, and she took it with a smile.

"Thank you," she then said, taking a sip of the warm tea. Her pale blue eyes closing, as if to savor every bit of taste the tes could offer.

But then the cup slipped from her hand, its saucer falling softly to the comforter above her stomach. It rolled down from the bed, falling with a clatter to the floor. Its content spilling everywhere it went.

Her head bowed down, unmoving. Her hands went dead, laying there unresponsive. As if she was finally resting, peacefully, forever.

A silent tear escaped his eye. But he smiled.

"Goodbye, Angelica," he whispered as he kissed her temple softly, feeling it losing its warmth bit by bit, "Goodnight."