The day was gray with low lying clouds that sat above the tips of the tall cedars lining the curvy country road. Patches of fog hovered the fields in the low lying areas. The drizzle was constant as the wiper blades parted the rain in sheathes. The thermos filled with strong, hot coffee sat in the passenger seat.
He came around an unexpected sharp corner, the back of the truck fish tailed, and the spare tire, in the back of his 71 F 100, slid to the other side, slamming against the bed of the truck. He came to a stop, and rested his head against the steering wheel. The radio quietly buzzing an old song. He turned the radio and the wipers off. Sitting in silence he imagined what it was going to be like when he met face to face with his brother. If his brothers answer was going to be the one he had hoped for, or the one that he was praying he would not hear from his lips.
He reached over to his thermos, and unscrewed the red cup and poured the coffee. He resumed driving. There was the sign to the correctional facility. The sign read 5 miles. He was rehearsing what he was going to say when his brother was brought into the visiting room. His brother always looked better when he was serving time. Healthier. His brother would even talk about the conversions he would have and that they would result with him on his knees, in front of his bunk every night, praying to God. Every time he was released the white light would burn out, and he would be back on the street and in the bars within minutes.
He pulled in to the parking lot. He threw the residual of his coffee onto the pavement. As he shut the door to his truck he paused and gazed around. The curled barbed wire fence, the tall erect guards look out. The clean iron bars on the windows. He felt stillness. A quiet.
No comments:
Post a Comment