REFLECTION FROM OLD GREENWOOD COVE

THE END WAS EMINENT. The night before she died, the family matriarch was asked if she felt afraid or scared. We clutched her hand.

“No,” she replied in a whisper, squeezing back. “Just sad.”

“Sad?” we asked.

“Yes, sad.” There was a moment of hesitation, then: “Sad that it all happened so quickly.”

Quizzical looks.  “What happened so quickly, Mom?”

Now, no hesitation: “Life.”

NEARLY FIVE YEARS elapse. Truly only moments. From a bluff above the ocean, I listen to the tide break and watch it wash over a tiny beach strewn with drift.

The words of the mother resonate.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press

LONG DAY IN 100 WORDS

WRANGLERS – worn threadbare at the butt and pocket, frayed about the back of the cuffs. Justins – mud or crap caked in the welt between the sole and the upper. Dusty chambray – partly tucked in and deeply stained at the armpits. Stetson split neatly through the crown.

The rider cantered into the saloon, looked for a chair, found only a stool, took a second look around, then climbed atop, leaning on an elbow – longing for a more comfortable repose.

Requesting a 14-year-old Oban, which presently arrived “neat,” he reflected on his fifteen hours since daybreak, and wished this roadhouse favored jazz.

© 2011
Church of the Open Road Press