Fiction
House on the Hill
By Caroline Baer
Dawn came, humble and serene. The quaking aspen framing the rough drive stood stately, whispered prayers glowing gold as they rose to the heavens. The house sat on the grassy hill, settling into its newly-laid timbers. Its face was white-washed and fresh, though the ground around the red geraniums nestled alongside looked stark and bare of the normal weeds. A red door, as red as the geraniums, gazed brightly over the porch and three, clean swept stairs towards the rising sun. No lights were on, but from a distance, the little house was alive. The wide windows and generous door formed a kindly face, and it seemed to survey the farmland around with queenly benevolence.
Brightness flashed out of a downstairs window, and, with a homely creek, the geranium door swung forward. Wrapped in a frayed bathrobe against the sharp tinge of autumn in the morning air, a man slid outside, anxious not to wake his new bride. A ginger cat, slim and sleek, sauntered after him, perfectly at home atop the hill. The man tiptoed with bare, quiet feet over to the three clean swept steps and sat. He gaped wonderingly at the glorious birth of day, more glorious than the birth of any goddess. The man had never before seen the sunrise, and now it was stretched out before him a scene from a Technicolor dream. His whole being radiated amazement: at his luck to be married to such a woman as was now walking sleepily down the stairs; at the fact that he owned his own house, atop a hill, bathed in sunrises and soaked in sunsets; at the glory of God. And the little house watched, along with the ginger cat, as the woman joined her husband, and together they watched their first sunrise.
The sun rose and the sun set. Years passed the house on the hill. A fourth inhabitant entered the house, counting, of course, the cat, who had gained a few pounds and lost a few fights. This new member was small and pink and round, with blue, blue eyes, the color of midsummer, and small, soft hands like a cloud in the dawn. She gurgled happily on the east side of the hill, fingering with infant care the red geranium her mother had given her. Her parents watched her comfortably, leaning against each other with marital bliss. The ginger cat sprawled on the warm summer grass, fully enjoying his reign over the outlying kingdom, Urban growth had encroached a little; a scattering of flat, ugly houses had popped up in the past few years, none of them comparable to the warmth of the house with the geranium door that was always open.
The sun set and the sun rose. Years flew by the house on the hill like a flock of starling. The baby grew into a girl, who flourished into a teenager. It wasn't long until she was standing at the red door in a Homecoming dress, waving goodbye to her parents. They waved back in proud silence. They saw their beautiful daughter and knew she rivaled the sunset burning ruby on the western horizon, and that no boy, much less the awkward-looking date standing by the purring car, deserved her. But as she came ran back for one last hug, and they squeezed her, careful not to muss her hair, the house and they let her go because they knew she would always come back.
The sun rose and the sunset. Years rolled by the house on the hill like dry tumbleweed. The economy dropped and so did the little house's rat population with the addition of a new cat. The old ginger had been laid to rest in his favorite geranium patch, and sometimes the husband and wife could see him in the sunset clouds. The farmland around them had just turned green with spring, its fields more advance but no less beautiful. The couple spent the still days watching the tractors awing back and forth through the rows like clockwork. The two were sleepier these days, and sometimes dozed through the time of day where the sky reflected their married daughter's eyes. But they always made it to the sunrise and sunset and watched God pastel and watercolor his canvass with unimaginable beauty. It was at the end of a particularly lovely spring day, when the air was fresh and earthy and a slight breeze herded sheep through the sky, that the old man sat creakily on the worn step. Behind him, he could hear his wife walking slowly down the stairs and through the red door, geranium red. She too sat down, old bones groaning, and grasped with soft and trembling fingers her husband’s hand. And so they sat, fingers entwined, with the old house on the hill, and together, they watched their last sunset.