dmseay

There was a path in the woods he used to walk on everyday. Past pines and oaks, hickory and dogwoods, the old man would follow the beaten earth throughout the course of the year. Throughout his life.

In spring, when all was a bloom, his long legs would carry him. An old tree limb was his walking stick. His right hand was raw from holding on so tight. He would stop and look around at the forest from time to time. Remembering springs of his childhood. The old man and his childhood friends would play among the green leaves and wildflowers. Singing out songs, laughing at jokes.

The summer would bring heat to this small Southern town. And, as a teen he still walked through the woods until he came to a cold watering hole. Many a times he would strip down to nothing and lay in the clear water. He even took girlfriends back to the spring for a dip and a kiss upon the lips.

But, it was fall that gave him hope. As an older man watching the colors change, he felt anything was possible. He’d sit on a tree stump and reflect about mistakes, missed opportunities, relationships that never evolved. The old man was alone in the woods. Perhaps he always wanted it that way.

And in winter he tracked through the snow. Bare branches over head. The celebration of Christ over. These were the lonely days of January and February. This was the hardest part of the year for the old man. Yet, he kept walking. Looking for salvation. Wanting the leaves to be green again.

His gun was cold. Hadn’t fired the pistol in a long time. It’d been tucked away in a safe box for a number of years. He wasn’t sure what the combination was, had it written down somewhere, maybe the back of his desk; perhaps written on the pages of Moby Dick. Maybe Ulysses.

Wherever it was it was loaded. Always kept the thing packed. Wrote a note to himself one day reading, use in case of emergency. That note was tucked in the safe box as well along with her ring. He took it off his wife ‘fore she was buried.

She knew about the gun. Followed him one night into town. Watched as he climbed the back fire escape. Saw the piece sticking out of his pants on the right side from streetlights looking down on him. The black metal shined.

And then he was gone. Crawled through the side window. Thought she heard two shots. Wasn’t sure. Just saw him climbing down quickly. She moved fast back to the house. Somehow it wasn’t fast enough, he was sitting there waiting on her in the kitchen with a pot of coffee percolating.

Where’d you go to? he asked. She shook her head no and went to the cupboard to grab a cup.

Said…where’d you go to? he asked again. She remained quiet. Sometimes men have to take care of business, he said. ‘Cause if they don’t then things fall apart. Understand? she nodded yes.

Did you see me take care of my business tonight?

I did not.

Why’d you follow me tonight?

Curious I guess.

How ’bout no more curiosity? Let me tend to my affairs. Comprende?, she bit her lip and nodded her head. He walked over and kissed her. Strolled down the hallway. Replaced the two bullets. And placed the gun in the safe. It was never talked about again.

The train rolled through town at a slow pace; brakes screeching, air whistling, an old black man in between cars waving his hat at the motorists who were stopped. The young boy waved back at him; placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. He wondered where that train was heading. North, south, east, or west. Maybe it was going up to Canada, or, Alaska. His heart started to skip.

This freckled kid continued watching the train. He wanted to jump on it, look for adventure. It would have to stop before he could climb on. His hefty size wouldn’t allow him to make it otherwise.

And then, the black man looked down on him. Told him to make that leap of faith. He’d loved to, but, he just didn’t have the black man’s muscle.

C’mon boy, the train hopper said. C’mon now, he shouted as he climbed off the car. He extended his hands, Ol’ Johnny has gotcha.

Thousands of thoughts went through the boy’s mind in a split second. What about his parents? Surely they would miss him. Friends at school, though there were few, he’d miss them. He’d miss the way the cafeteria smelled, the guidance counselor saying hello to him, the school bus rides through town.

At the same time he was thinking all this , Johnny was lifting him up. Welcome aboard son, Johnny said. Welcome aboard.

Where’s this train going? the kid asked.

Oh, I guess out west.

To California?

I believe so.

Never been there before, kid wiped his forehead with his sleeve. They tell me it’s nice.

How much money you got on you?

Nothing, kid said. I got nothing.

Well, that makes two of us.

The two of them rode into the cold night. Johnny kept his big arms around the kid. Placed his jacket on him too; he was used to the cold.

You know kid, eventually you gonna be on your own. I got folks I gotta see in Denver. You understand? he nodded. You take good care now. Go back to sleep.

Next morning the kid awoke. A blue denim jacket covered him,but, there was no Johnny. He rode on. Passed Utah, Nevada, into California. He’d made it. Got off in Bakersfield. And, there were all these Mexicans lined up for work. White men would come in trucks and haul them off to farms, vineyards, factories, lumber yards.

The kid got in line with the rest of them. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, My adventure begins.

Winds blew and trees swayed back and forth to a rhythmic beat. It was the dance of nature. He watched from his front porch; sun casting shadows, flowers still showed off colors; Indian summer.

And he looked at the black asphalt running in front of his house; shining like a new penny. Tall grass growing by the foot on the sides of the road. Birds swooping into nests built in gutters, trees. It was all like some kind of movie, or, painting; an old Chevy truck sat in the front yard.

The sounds of semis and motorcycles from the highway made a soundtrack. Soon it would be the slushing of snow; nature’s death before resurrection. He knew it was coming; winter, darkness would come early.

But, he was at peace on that day. His last day. Finality has a beauty. Goodbye dear friend.

There were no leaves on trees. Autumn had passed. In fact, autumn never came. It just turned from hot to cold in the blink of an eye. Snow had yet to come.

He looked out the window of his hospital room. He’d been inside for months. The same old regimen, day in day out. Patients pacing halls. Lining up for medications. Arts and crafts. Group therapy. Death is never the better option. That’s what they told him.

Life, he said, is funny. What keeps us in the game? or, maybe we no longer wish to play; give up. Take drugs and be a zombie. That’s what he had decided to do; check out. Stay in Bellevue as long as he could. And when released, consider the possibilities.

Winter. Wishing for snow. Ice skating at Bryant Park. Christmas is in high gear. Shops and tinsel. Trees decorated. Soon the mayor would flip the switch and the city could breath again. But, for now, he looked at 1st Avenue down below. Wishing it all wouldn’t move so fast. He needed the pace to be slower. Don’t we all.

The house was bare; no furniture in it. Not a pan or a pot in the kitchen. The bed was gone in the bedroom. An old love seat had vanished. He looked around the place for clues. Paintings which were once on the walls disappeared and things like lamps, chandeliers replaced with hanging light bulbs. Cracks in the walls.

This is where he grew up. This is where the old man spent his childhood; outside on a swingset, sliding down a slide. They were gone too. Brown grass and dirt lay where the boy’s youth was spent. Dad used to push him on Sundays high into the sky. Mom would watch as she fried up chicken livers.

The old man walked outside to the driveway where the basketball hoop still stood, mounted to the green garage. Several nights he played imaginary games on that court. All by himself he pretended to be both teams, the coaches, and the television commentators. The floodlights shined down on him.

And now the house was going to be torn down. Condemned from further use. He was glad he saw it one last time. Times were better back then. The memories proved that. You can’t live an imaginary life forever.

He stood in the hallway. Watched her every move. Saw her in the kitchen fixing coffee, adding cream to it. Looked-on as she sliced an apple. Peered in on her while she ate it one bite at a time.

She didn’t love him anymore. He could tell by the way she slept on her side of the bed. Always got up before him. Dressed immediately.

It just happened. These actions. The way she no longer looked at him. Didn’t talk anymore. They were two roommates that wanted desperately out of a lease.

And sometimes he heard her on the phone. Talking about going to Sweden, or, maybe Copenhagen. Perhaps Hawaii. Anywhere to get away from him.

He stood in the hallway. Watched her every move. Oh how he wanted to oblige.

There was no sound. He sat there quietly, listening to nothing. Thoughts ran through his head. Memories. Past sins. A cat purred on his lap.

She said she was innocent. Or, was that how she came across; going to church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. She sang in the choir. Went to Bible study on Friday evenings. Always brought a casserole.

He never spoke to her. The two of em just kind of looked at each other not knowing what to say. They were young back then. Shyness got the best of em.

The young man began having dreams about her. Dreams where they were walking in the woods, holding each other’s hand, but, not a word between em. It was like watching a black and white silent movie. Except their lips didn’t move. There were no words on the screen. Just silence. Until she went away.

The old man never loved anyone. Stopped going to church. He stuck to himself. Sitting in a chair with a cat on his lap; purring. Thinking of past sins. Memories.

Watching the clock. Looking outside at the clouds growing dark. Eyeing the clock again; quarter ’til two. The blonde on the television says it’ll be coming before six o’clock. Almost black outside. Leaves are shaking.

Waiting on the storm, I find myself at peace. It’s been a good run. Friends, lovers, adventures back and forth ‘cross America. Countless jobs, always hanging on by the skin of my teeth. As long as there was a dollar in my pocket. A poet, a pauper.

This is tornado time. A frame of time given me to sort things out. To prepare. And I sit and wait in meditation. Wanting it all to end.

“I’m ready my Lord,” Leonard Cohen. From the song, “You want it darker.”

She took Highway 21 heading south through cornfields, beans, alfalfa, cows grazing. Drove ’til she couldn’t drive no more. Just parked the car on the side of the road and started walking. Strolling down hot asphalt in the summertime without a care in the world. She prayed the old two lane would take her somewhere; anywhere.

Men passed her by. Amish boys in wagons taking a look. Teenagers on tractors taking a gander over their shoulders. Farmers slowing down in old pickups wished she’d stick out her thumb. The tall brunette kept walking.

And she’d laugh at her own jokes. Saying to herself, Some folks call it a small soda while I call it a Minnesota, that made her chuckle. The young girl would pick up rocks and pitch em ‘cross the road.

What was she walking away from? No one ever knew. Not sure that she did. Maybe she was just out for a walk. Clear her head for awhile. Could’ve been running from a man. Whatever it was gave her strength to walk ten miles that day. Ten miles to the nearest bar. And it was there she stayed awhile.

The bartender poured shot after shot for her. Whiskey was her choice. Backed with a Coca Cola. She liked the way it fizzed on her white teeth. She liked the burn on the way down.

On the television up connected to the corner ceiling, was Vanna White. Tall leggy Vanna turning letters. Smiling. She wished she could be Vanna. That was her dream. Just smiling and turning letters. It’s all she ever wished for.