It Did Not Move It’s Wings
The main he reason he set about writing was to figure out what he wanted to say. At least that was his aim.
He was thirty-two. In all reality he had received about half of what he could expect to receive in life. This was not meant to sound depressing or to give the appearance, as some from his generation, including him, were in the habit of doing, of being hopeless. Insofar as that hopelessness would give him a reason to invest his life with some sort of weight that would provide meaning.
He was not hopeless. Nor was his life without meaning. He was just thirty-two.
In the span of thirty-two years he had been born, learned to talk, won a spelling bee, danced with a girl to Whitney Houston, bought a moped, made grades that were refrigerator worthy, been a pastor, renounced his religion, traveled to India, bought a grocery store in India, worked on an organic farm, got married, bought a black Vespa*, had a son**, got divorced, got married again, had another son***, bought a red Vespa****, fought a mountain lion, taken up bird watching and wood working and making simple syrups and plenty of other hobbies that were as frequent and as transient and fleeting as his glimpses behind the curtain. His life was rich and deep and full, save the rare day when he woke up wishing he was on a boat with dried salt in his hair and wind burn on his face.
He could not remember the first time he noticed it although he had felt it a thousand times since. This morning he felt it in bed watching a documentary on Hemingway and Cuba and U-boats and the sea. He lost it when he was out of the shower. His hair was wet and there was no salt in it.
By all accounts, he was of decent portion and decent looks. Standing naked in the front of the mirror he studied his body. He had begun to think of himself as a cowboy and a maverick. His medium bodied beard led credence to this facade. His soft hands spoke a different truth. He grabbed his favorite button up shirt that had an old SMITH, CARLOS stamp from the dry cleaner on it. He had another shirt that SMITH, CARLOS used to own. As the punchline to a joke that he would frequently throw out to admirers of the plaid, “It’s from the Carlos Smith collection”. But in reality it was from just another guy who no longer deemed the shirts fashionable enough for him. Being in possessions of leftovers is one thing sometimes. Another thing altogether when it comes to fashion.
On this day he chose his favorite. A red and teal and purple and white plaid with small brown and cream buttons that had a small square depression that sat down inside the button where the thread held the marbled circles to the shirt. He rolled his sleeves up twice. He could never decide if he should roll them up twice or three times. He usually went with three but this shirt was slightly smaller than others. Shrunk by an infinite number of washings and dryings. His arms poked through the plaid. They were thinly covered in light brown hair that usually turned bleached blonde in the summer from the sun. His skin was bistered and tanned from an early age and once bronzed never lost it’s sun-tinged hue.
The sky was blue. It was the first few days of April in the first few weeks of spring in the south. The morning was cool but not cold.
A hawk or crow or turkey vulture flew over head. It did not move it’s wings.
Work was ahead of him and the day behind him. It was only 8:45am.
* Named it the Irenic Luchador.
** Dylan Cash. Named after Bob and Johnny.
*** Named Mason Rivers after Jennings and Cuomo.
**** It did not have a name.