I don’t mean to be gross, but the word “colonnades” makes me think of a proctologist. “I need some help, Doc. There’s something going on back there. It’s just not right.” That is not where I went with my story, just the ridiculous preamble.
Martha sits on the porch in her rocking chair, looking longingly past the colonnades. She rocks slowly as her fingers do their dance. Her knitting needles swiftly swirl around each other with a faint “swoosh” as they briefly connect. She occasionally glances at her growing creation.
Inside, Tom and Alex peek through the blinds.
“I’m worried about Mom.”
“She’ll be fine. Mom’s strong.”
“It’s been months. She just sits out there every day. Winter’s coming.”
“She’ll stay in when it gets cold.”
“We should call a shrink.”
“She’s mourning. Everybody mourns differently.”
“She’s waiting. She thinks he’s coming home.”