The sound of the hammer being drawn back caused David to open his eyes and stare at the steel death in his hands. A teardrop slipped down his cheek and splashed harshly against the cold metal, dissipating into dozens of tiny droplets, like a life shattered irreconcilably.
With his elbows on his knees and the revolver between his cold sweaty palms, David shuddered and clenched his eyes shut, blocking out the world around him, the world that had ignored him, tuned him out like the cries of the dead and dying.
David shook his head to clear his mind, but to no avail.
Disjointed memories came rushing back to him, shattered like the teardrop on the gun, like the mess that used to be a life.
That time, when he was fifteen, that first kiss, sloppy and awkward. That very next day when she was with someone else, for some reason known only to her. It just wonÆt work. I've got to be thinking about my future now.
I spent the morning in the garden. I transplanted, pruned, weeded, mulched and watered. We have had very high temperatures this past month and the ground is dry. I'm praying for rain soon.
I'm also praying for my children, all grown now. As I approach my 61st birthday, I realize that there isn't anything more I can say or do to nurture them to adulthood. They are there!
Likewise, there is little more for me to do in the garden until spring, so I will begin the next task: splitting and stacking wood for the winter. I heat my cottage with wood.
I took my dog for a walk this afternoon. We walk around the lake next to my cottage. She and I have been doing this for more than 4 years and I realized today that both of us are slowing down. It has been a cool day so I can't use heat as the excuse. In fact, today has been the first pleasant day in at least 6 weeks. It is so dry here that several counties have declared a bann on burning.
Not only because I was born in October! It is a time of color and I am a person who reponds readily to visual stimuli.
Here is a poem about autumn by William Shakespeare.
by William Shakespeare (1609)
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
As a gardiner, I recognize that plants expire this time of the year, no matter how I much I coax them to live a few more weeks. There is a sadness …