‘Field’s Nocturne No. 10 in E Major’ by Matt Lumbard

Sonny wakes to the smell of coffee and the sight of his grandpa slipping suspenders over his shoulders, looking at the wood-stove, and muttering, “It’ll burn itself out.” He rolls over in his cot and looks through the little window to see fuchsia-blue breaking over the sky, realizing it is now day. 

Gramp is tucking a pint of rye into his front overall pocket when Sonny says, “Seems a sight too warm this year, Gramp. Plus, Gram can’t hear it now. Known you long enough to know you don’t go for ghosts.”

“You know me so good you’ll know I don’t break tradition,” Gramp says, winking through a frown. His face shakes slightly as he bends to pull on his fur-lined boots, leather gloves, and the fighter pilot’s cap that nearly covers his eyes, looking like a little kid in his oversized winter clothing and his let’s-go-out-and-play countenance. “’Sides, I cored it last night. Ice is thick as a Tolstoy novel out there.”

Before Sonny can pour himself a cup of coffee, Gramp flings the cabin door open and lets the snow yowl in, causing Sonny to dress quickly and forget his own gloves and hat. Sonny shimmies over to the piano and rolls it to the door, Gramp helping shoulder it down onto its side to where he’s got the sled laid out and ready to land it. Still cloudily heavy-headed from last night’s whisky and smoke-soaked playing cards, they step out of the cabin as white sunshine and bitter wind do more than a cup of coffee ever could.