Another steamy August night settles like the big man that he is, in that dog-eared Lazy Boy of this small town. You hear that low rumble again, just beyond the ridge and remember that Becca used to call it "god-scheming.” Her memory brings you half a grin as you finish up the last of the dishes. Outside the kitchen window you see her smile, turned orange and upside down, disappearing from view. You’re too tired for the irony that this dusk delivers, so you wring your hands dry and your head empty and excuse yourself from the scene. Later, when the kids go to bed, you come out with your knitting and an iced tea glass with a couple splashes of Jim Beam. You lower yourself onto that familiar second step; stare out past the rows of transformers and telephone poles, up and into that endless sheet of speckled black. If it weren’t for your left foot curled underneath the deck’s bottom step, you might rise up and be swallowed whole by this night. With a burning warmth, that first sip brushes past your lips and slides on down. "There's gonna be some knitting going on tonight, girl", those scrub pines seem to whisper. "Damn right,” you think as your chin steers back another dose of that amber medicine. That rumble’s gonna do some talking tonight and damn if you won't be listening. It's a good night for it, don't you think? porch knitting |
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