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from Tradition...“Dead,” is all he can get out of her. “Finest still around?” he asks. “Finest Coon’s dead. Been dead.” Thunder rolls after the haze in the lazy gray sky. Bulldozers plow through the walls of the house next door. Through the walls. Through the floorboards. The probated tables and chairs. He stands with his back to her. Stooped. Head bent. Staring at the light. Pale and flickering in an otherwise empty refrigerator. The same hungry position he assumed sixty years ago the morning he left. It had been full then. There was no light nor state of the art cooling system. Just a box and a block of ice. Melting on a tray on the bottom. In the dark while Mabel and So were sleeping he stuffed into a feed sack a leftover quarter of ham two thick wedges of banana cream pie a can of beer and a handful of dinner rolls. This morning he’ll be lucky if he can find a still good center in a long since turned loaf of bread. Wonder Bread. White bread... |
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