Two flags bend in the breeze

Gadsden…old stars and stripes

A field of grain has been harvested

Pumpkins and gourds are piled in the front yard

Yellows, greens, reds, and rust

Soon grass will be brown

Dogs bark at passing cars

Life goes on

He turned the coffee on. She was still asleep. Looked out the window at the darkness. Saw red tail lights moving down the street. A truck dragging a boat. Summer had ended. Now it was time for cold mornings and warm afternoons. Carry a sweatshirt with you just in case.

Friday night high school football had started. Parents in the bleachers yelling out for their kids on the field. Students walking around the track talking about when they’re going to leave this town. A town with a gas station, a truck stop, and a McDonald’s. The Piggly Wiggly grocery store. And, the paper mill that employed half the village. Friday night football had started. And, they wouldn’t be a part of it.

He had a job at the car wash a couple of towns over. The kid was good. Strong work ethic. He jumped in and out of cars all evening long. Wiping down the interior. Washing the windows. Spraying scents of orange, lavender, spices of fall, and winter pine.

The boy made some money. Enough to put gas in the car and take his girl out on Friday nights. The rest he saved in a glass jar under his bed. Promised himself when it got full he was going to leave this town. Go off to New York City, or, Chicago, or, Los Angeles. Someplace where he could live his own life, on his terms. Follow his dreams. Fantasies that changed from day to day.

It was now autumn. Early in the morning. The coffee was brewing while she slept down the hall. He missed his son. Wondered why he left? They never heard from him again. Not a call, or, an email. A letter was never sent. He thought about tracing him down. But, the boy probably wanted to be left alone.

Kids are hard to figure out, pop whispered. Damn hard to figure out. You think they’re happy. But, they’re not, he said to himself.

Leaves were changing. Air was crisp. Perfect for a Friday night. Perfect. Almost.

Grass shimmers like emeralds. Mums stand tall, filled with colors. Roof tops are white. A gray smoke lifts from chimneys. No pope elected yet.

A young boy delivers the morning papers. Front page news; a chicken dinner at the Elk’s lodge Friday night. A young couple died in a car wreck out on 30. Going too fast. Coupons for the local Kroger store. Pork chops $2.99 a pound. Spaghetti squash $1.99 each.

He walks through the frost. His boots are soaked. One by one he tosses the rolled up papers on porches. Senior citizens wave as they close the doors. A dog barks.

And in the window on Chestnut Street he sees a silhouette in the window of a woman bathing. The boy slowly walks by.

She’s a divorced young lady in the  neighborhood. A blonde who keeps to her self. She always tips good at Christmas time. And those sweaters she wears.

Instead of throwing the paper he places it on her porch. Takes another look at the outlined body and breathes exhaust from his mouth. He walks backwards.

She is someone he will never forget. His first crush.

He sat in a dark room. Pitch black. Just a light from his cell phone. Trains went by throughout the night. Steel hitting steel. Northern Pacific carrying crates and pulling cars. A caboose at the end. This loud noise in the dark. The noise of travel, leaving, going somewhere. He’d been many places.

Canada, Quebec, Vermont, Maine, New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire, Connecticut, Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, California, New Mexico, Colorado, so many more. Hitchhiking over state lines in the heat of the day. Sleeping under bridges. His was a hobo life. It was a manic life. Couldn’t stay still. Always on the move. Comfort was found in strangers arms. Late at night. Carousing bars and midnight diners. Cups of coffee. Shots of booze.

And he went through old telephone numbers. Old friends he owed money to. Ex-wives ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers. He’d never see them again. Days of youth.

Bugs crawl on the floor. He feels them when he walks to the bathroom. Blankets stained with blood. His blood. Spends too much time thinking of the old days. Nothing to look forward to. Just darkness.

It’s always quiet on this street. No sounds. Weeds wrestle in the breeze. Tree limbs reach out for cloudy skies. Bushes and fences dividing houses. The grass was cut one final time  before winter  came. Candy wrappers from a Halloween night litter the sidewalks.

He raked his yard. Piles of leaves throughout his property. Gold, reds, rust, orange colors turning brown. They crackled when he swept them. He pushed fall’s harvest to the curb. Made a straight line, a wall of leaves. Kids jumped in head first. Not knowing what was beneath. Blue jeans with grass stains on knee caps.

It’s this time of year that he thought of his mom who had passed on. Autumn was her favorite season. Funny how she passed away in winter. Snow was in traces. Ice on streets. The Christmas tree had been put away. That’s what he was told. He was not there. 

They said he never was on time. Always a day late and a dollar short. It was evening when he got the call. Family told him she’d passed on. He said goodbye in his own way. Lit a candle, said a prayer.

Now he rakes leaves and thinks of her. Her favorite time of the year. In the spring the leaves will return. It’s all one big cycle. That’s what he believed.

Tracks were silent. No trains running that morning. Cars and trucks rolled over the steel with ease. He watched from the front porch. Semis going out towards the highway. Sounds like waves crashing though he was far from the sea. The distant cries of cars. Mufflers attached. Smooth sounding. But, no trains.

He wanted to walk on water. Had a Christ complex. Wanted to heal the sick and the lame. Had a desire to cure cancer. This was all talk. Had been his whole life. The old man just sits there, waiting on the train to come through. Listening to vehicles. Pretending.

See, in his mind he was married to Vanna White. She sat beside him on the porch. He’d reach out to hold her hand, but, it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Just the sounds of the pretend ocean. While he waited on trains.

There’s very little time.

Maybe, not enough time.

Where did time go?

The wind is cold on this October morn. Feels like December. I sit on the front porch watching black squirrels run in front of cars; playing Russian roulette. They’re not concerned with time. The time for them is now. Living in the moment. Quick actions. You find a nut, you store it. Putting it away for some other time. Or, at that time.

I talk with old friends about old times. Drunken afternoons, St. Patrick’s Day parades, Christmas of the past, a wedding day celebration. That’s when I thought I had all the time in the world. Careless we are in our youth.

An old grandfather clock stands in the living room. Telling time with brass hands and chimes. One day the clock will stop. And then a decision must be made; fix it,or,let it be. Just an old show piece it will become. Just like me.

There’s very little time.

Maybe, not enough time.

Where did time go?

They’re late. Haven’t headed south yet. It’s past that time of year. Off to Maryland, Virginia, Carolinas,old Dixie. Winter break. I hear them singing, but, I do not see them. Maybe they’re hiding. Maybe they got comfortable.

The couple drove south on I95. Past Baltimore, Washington, Richmond. He joked about following birds. Said he could track em; didn’t need a map. She asked if his map was internal, spread throughout his mind, his soul knowing which way to go from past lives. He just laughed. Said, something like that. Lit up a Viceroy.

Where do they go? she asked, twisting her auburn hair and smacking gum. He told her they went south. Could you be more specific? the young girl placed her hand on his thigh.

Southern states, he told her. All over the South. They fly in groups.

It’s called migration, she offered. I learned that in school. Junior high. You ever think that we’re migrating? There was silence.

When we get to Florida I’m gonna take a boat to Cuba, he winked at her. What’re you gonna do little girl?

I’m a young lady.

Right. I don’t know what you are. A mistake I guess. I shouldn’t have picked you up. Taking a big risk. How do I know there ain’t cops looking for you right now? he turned on the radio. Some A.M. all news station.

You worry too much, she placed another piece of Juicy Fruit in her mouth. When we get to Florida I’m going to lay on the beach. Watch the birds fly over.

They looked at each other and smiled. And birds began to fly before them.

A mess. Trash everywhere. Broken bottles, crushed Coke cans, old newspapers flying through the air. Street sweepers can’t keep up. Nor can the bum collecting aluminum.

There are pink ribbons wrapped ’round trees. The breeze blows making them fold in the wind. A mural painted on brick. People pass by without looking. Unaware of their surroundings.

Leaves in the street turning brown. Soon a frost will come. Tomatoes rot on the vine.

I am getting older.

Leaves turning colors amidst outlet malls. Exit signs and I69. Semis with trailers piggyback on each other. Stop, and pay the toll.

Billboards with advertisements on them for hotels and lawyers, fast food restaurants, fireworks; bumps in the road.

She left him ten years ago. Wanted to see America. Needed to be out on the highways and backroads. Said it was nothing personal. Maybe they just grew apart. That’s what she said.

And, he stayed where he was planted. Family kept him there. Still went to his mom’s for Sunday dinner. Still swung on the same swingset in the backyard. At times he missed her. Wondered what she was doing. Never heard from her. She changed her number.

The sun shines bright through gray clouds. He can see it where he’s at and she can too. That and the moon at night. Maybe that’s all they ever had. Maybe.