Maintenance

The gate still squeaked, but barely. The old, stooped man swung it open and closed a few times to be sure. It wasn't much of a squeak but he would have to fix it. He’d been doing this year after year, fighting the elements to keep it right. Sighing, he set down the metal tool tray in the long weeds and knelt in front of the ancient wrought iron gate contemplating the hinges. The noon sun beat down on his shoulders mercilessly as the cicadas sang and rattled in the tree above the small family plot. A single ancient limestone marker shared the small square of earth with a stunted oak whose shade stopped selfishly at the very edge of the fence. Inside the metal border looked cool and inviting. Even the grass inside was short and green when the rest of the field was brown with thirsty weeds that hissed when there was a breeze. He swatted at a deer fly that landed on his neck.


Today there was no breeze and the thick air hung heavy with pollen and dust that mixed with the sweat dripping freely down his face, burning his eyes when he did not pause his work and wipe his forehead. This was never an easy job. It was always too hot, too rainy or so cold that skin cracked and bled against the metal. But the work had to be done. The old man selected his tools from the tray with hands that were deep brown from sun and slick with sweat. He fumbled with the hot metal tools. Prying the hinges up, he poured the iron shavings in. First the top and then the bottom hinge. He clamped the rough black hinges closed tighter over the post gripping the wrench with every ounce of his fading strength. He wasn't the young man that once tended this chore with vigor. Those days were gone and soon his son would take over this duty.


He stood raising a hand to shade his eyes from the scorching blaze above. Looking towards the manor, minuscule in the distance, he opened and closed the gate gently. He smiled when he was rewarded with a harsh grating squeak that echoed across the field. The old man nodded when he saw the two flashes from a mirror at the manor. They could hear it over there just fine. He latched it again, and refastened the ancient copper bands that kept it locked. Picking up a stone jar of salt from his tray he reinforced the thick line of white powder that encircled the plot just outside the fence.


His work was done for today. Their matriarch could keep her shade tree and green grass to herself and leave the rest of them alone. But if somehow she did decide to go wandering, they would know. They wouldn't be caught by surprise, again.


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Word count: 477
@NomDeBen
Optional Challenge: No Dialog! 

Submitted to Finish That Thought #29 hosted by Alissa Leonard