The Art And The Story #3_At The End Of A Day
The wind was blowing from the west. For the fifth day in a row. She walked out into the night, into a chill that should have come with a starry sky, and looked up into an even blackness.
The wind was a puzzlement, as an east wind was part of the definition of Here. Weather came in from the west, from the ocean, wind came from the east, out of the gorge. Always.
She sighed and pulled her jacket tight around her, tucked her hands in under her arms, palms cupping the outsides of her breasts, fingers warm in the underneaths. Life was feeling vaguely odd and out of sorts, like spring was here but she wasn’t. Something like that.
She lit a cigarette and started walking. Nowhere, really, just walking. Because she could, because she needed to move, because she had too many things and spring was here but she wasn’t. Something like that.
A dog barked at her from behind a fence. Rottweiler. Vern, what a lunkhead that dog was. Gorgeous, wonderful, funny, loveable, lunkheaded seal-dog. God, she missed him. All of them, she missed all of them. Hunks of her heart buried with each. One out by the river buried wrapped in a treasured Harley Davidson blanket. There is a house on top of him now. One in the clearing at the top of a mountain, a white oak planted over the top of a shallow grave dug in hardpack and rock. One under a lotus tree, buried with an amethyst ring and a poem and her favorite toy. Hunks of her heart with all of them.
She turned back towards the house, and when she opened the door, there was the fire’s warmth, and two dogs greeting her like she had been gone for a month, with stuffed bears in their mouths, and snorts and wags and general glee in the very fact of her existence.
She smiled, and sat down to rest.
At The End Of A Day design here.