[2 May 2019]
He sits there, dark house,
the old wooden porch swing goes creak creak,
ice cream cone in his left hand, grandpa Albert’s pocket watch in his right –
it don’t work no more but it sure feels good, cold and smooth and solid.
He opens the watch. Squeak.
Mary Elizabeth
Helen Marie
Annabelle Rose
Click. He snaps it shut.
It sure is hot for September. Leaves are already shriveled up and dried up.
Annabelle I don’t think it was never this hot when we was kids do you?
Takes another lick from the cone. Vanilla, with fudge. Almost gone.
Squeak click creak. Squeak click creak. Squeak.
A tear lands in the empty cone. Splash and trickles out the bottom. Sweat drips onto
the old watch. Deciding whether or not to feel nostalgic. Deciding how much memories are worth.
The basset bays somewhere behind the house and then nothing. The animals are gone silent.
Siren in the distance. A wail, long and low.
A twister.
Oh look Annabelle it’s fixin’ to rain. I think that storm’s comin’ on after all. Click.
He pops the last bit of cone into his mouth. Crunch. A little ice cream on his finger.
Best lick that off. Stands up creak creak and leaves the pocket watch
on the porch swing. He looks over the dusty fields one more time before he turns around
and heads on in for the night.
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