Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

The Contents of the Urn II

And still inside the house, I noticed how the living room and the kitchen hadn't had that much of space separation. For this I could see the old woman standing near the sink, near the kettle powered by electricity. She was heating water in order to prepare us two cups of coffee. One in the eye, in here I could see how neat the room we were in. Everywhere else would look lustrous if the sun will shine in this place. Gleaming. It might be non-spacious for the outdoor activities, like sports; it might be cramped with much various things (that could be sentimental to her as owner), but whoever lived and still living here had a great passion for cleaning.

     Orderly: Not only its neatness I found, but also the arrangements of appliances, the furniture, everything else had its type of organization reached to a higher level. Above all average, of course. Symmetrical. In here, everything looked uniform from one thing to another. Inside this house, one could say well-balanced. And that if sight could be converted to sense of hearing—to sounds—the things I found in here belonged to be harmonious. All pleasant to the ears.

     "Would you mind if I play some music?"

     "Not at all," I said to her.

     "I'll get the vinyl."

     "Wait, what, ma'am? You have vinyl player?"

     "I do," she replied. "As for today I think I'm in the mood for the Beatles. Or probably... some classical compositions by Schubert or Haydn."

     "Oh, legendary. Those two composers," I recalled them. "Yeah, I know them. They have the same first name."

     "Franz."

     "Exactly," I said. "Sure, I listen to them sometimes."

     The old lady didn't reply afterwards.

     As we waited for the kettle to reach the boiling point, she decided to go upstairs. In all fairness, for an old woman looking on her seventies, still she had the energy as if she could move freely and flexible around the house. Strong. Persistent. She was out of my sight for about three minutes.

     Later, the lady brought a vinyl player along with seven to eight albums— all tact in the palm of her hands. And in regards of the old age of hers, of course, the first thing I thought of is helping her put those things down. Safely. I stood by then. However, in a moment she insisted that she could handle to settle things down. "I got this," she said, needing no one's help.

     "Is that Rubber Soul you're holding onto?"

     "Why yes, sharp eyes," she said smiling. "It's my favorite album of the Beatles."

     "Wow, thank heavens you have a copy," I responded, sitting back down again. "I love Rubber Soul."

     "One of the classic ones."

     "I know, right?"

     At that time the kettle reached boiling point, just about the second she put the player and the albums down on the mini-table. Even by the way she set those things down, one could see how wary the old lady can be. She wasn't rickety, unlike me. She was careful.

     The lady then went straight to the kitchen— and there, she poured hot water in two, yellow coffee mugs (one short, the other tall). I myself stopped observing her; to not waste time, I volunteered to put my favorite record of the Beatles on the vinyl player.

     The first song Drive My Car started to kick in right away. And by all means, without its lyrics it wouldn't be a complete song, in my own opinion. The upbeats would appear empty without the following: