The Rembrandts

I don't know their names; but, since moving to Ireland, I've passed their little council house nearly every day on my walk to the crossroads and back. It’s the only one on our road where the door is always open. Still.  I don’t recall how or when it became the destination of my daily walks. What did I notice first? Was it the setting—a prim white cottage nestled in a patchwork of hedge-lined fields? Or was it the way those same fields are subsumed into the austere hulk of Ben Bulben? Was it as simple as the implied welcome of that open door? All I know is that my daily constitutional has become enlivened by the presence of this place and of the couple who dwell there.
They both have vibrant white hair.  He always wears a jacket and tie and she, a cardigan and a plaid or tweedy skirt.  They have a plump marmalade cat. 
Sometimes I can see into their kitchen where she stands at her sink with her back to me,  looking out the  window at fields of sheep and cattle and across to the mountain. From the intent tilt of her small frame, I read longing and perhaps, awe?
On brighter days there are two white wooden folding chairs where they sit side by side in their front garden.  We wave to each other.  "lovely day?"  "’tis?" 
He walks with a cane, but rather than suggesting frailty, it gives him a sturdy grandeur.   He offers his free arm to her as she’s not so steady on her feet these days.
Sometimes I see another car in the drive—perhaps family calling by. But, mostly it's just the two of them, and the cat, who dozes on top of their little car or under one of the white chairs.
I say "Hiya kitty" and he raises his head and follows me with his eyes until he has to turn his head too far, then rests it back on his front paws.
We’ve been enjoying an indian summer this past week; but, only one white chair is set out.  Alone, he takes in the sun, his eyes closed, his hands clasping the cane between his knees.   I don't call out for fear of startling him.  I want to ask after his wife; but, I don’t want to intrude and how could it not be an intrusion? After all, I am a stranger.
Last evening I saw their kitchen filled with visitors. When I passed by on my return home, a big young man was holding her steady by her elbow in front of the sink. I could see bewilderment in her face and I could feel a sadness rising in me.  But, I’m just passing by. I can know nothing of them, really.
No, let me rephrase that. I can not know their details; but, I recognize a quiet devotion when I see it. What could be more evident than two chairs, side by side, overlooking a tiny tended garden of hydrangea, poppy and gazania; a well-fed cat, and an open door? I have no illusion that they anticipate my passing “hello” as much as I count on theirs. I suppose you could argue that I’ve ascribed more virtue to them then, say, their parents or children might allow… After all, “I don’t have to live with them.” I don’t know. All I can tell you is that I am a stranger to these parts. I am here because I am devoted to my husband who was born here and knows what it is to be homesick. I am here because he is devoted to me. When I moved here, I left behind a lifetime’s worth of family and friends. I get homesick. And in some lovely peculiar way, it is eased for my passing this place in spite of a growing sense that “this too shall pass.”
There's a grand new house going up right next to them and the noise of diggers and power saws echoes across the valley all day.
I recently learned that he was hospitalized for something and she had gone to stay with a relative. And still someone tends to their home, putting fresh lillies in the window. I’ve seen the cat. There are new airtight windows, and a railing at the stoop--traces of hope of their return.
The winter before last, at twilight I was passing. And there they were, the two of them, standing in the front window. He held her close—his arm encircling her shoulders--both of them wrapped in a sepia glow. Their faces were smiling and tender as they looked down at their cat whose face was tilted up at them, meeting their gaze from the courtyard below.
I don't know their names; but, I call them the Rembrandts for the way they capture the light.