Sunday, November 13, 2011

Struggling with the lock he twisted it back and forth, turning the handle of the old garage, waiting for the clank of the metal bars inside to break loose and allow the creaky, broken-down wooden door to release it's tired grasp. Finally it did, and as the door rolled up, the garage yawned open, pulling cobwebs off the ground, and sending dust and the dead leaves of fall back into the cold air. There in the corner was the stack of belongings that didn't. A plastic crate of ammunition, a cardboard box of holsters, belts, and a couple of handguns. A stack of shotguns and rifle's all leaning atop the rest, cloaked in their canvas and leather cases, quiet. And to the side were a pair of hiking boots, cold, unworn, new. They were actually the right size. They had a good height to them, for when the snow stacked up and crusted from the wind, and each step would be a work of lifting out from under, and sinking down again. There was so much work in the hunt, and these boots would actually come in handy. But still, he didn't know if they were necessary.

Into the winter night he returned, thinking about the darkness and the unrest in the air. The clouded sky holding captive the full moon and her gentle message. The soft lights of the houses around illuminated dinner tables filled with conversation. The focused gaze of the armchair quarterbacks were lit brightly by flat screen temples. All of this passed slowly as he walked through the dark, cold night, struggling onward to find a warm place. A good pair of boots wasn't necessary for this short clip. They would be better kept locked up in an old dark garage. They weren't going to be needed this year.

1 comment:

Erin said...

born to write. seriously.