It is late evening when they set themselves on the back porch. The squeak of the door, the way it opens again before slowly meeting the door frame a second and last time, the steam rising from the coffee that sits on a tray she lays out on the table between the two old rockers, all of this is the same as the night before it and the night before that one.
Good supper, he says as he too lets out a squeak as he sits, do you need some help with that Beth? Don't want you burning yourself.
You stay put, old man, she teases lovingly. Oh, and I haven't put in the cream and sugar in, George.
All of this yet, is also the same dialogue as the night before it and the night before that one. Beth grabs her coffee and closes her eyes as she inhales the flavour of the freshly brewed java. His spoon clangs back and forth exactly five times before he will grab his mug and bring it carefully to his lips to check the temperature of the hot liquid.
To their left and center, the setting sun throws shades of orange about the land. In the distance, the crickets begin their nightly dance. But for a few minutes yet, the songbirds will entertain George and Beth, and, like every night before it, simultaneously they will sigh at the sounds they've come to know as home.