Dry dirt road

     Dust from the dry dirt road wrapped around his ankles as he kicked a can all the way from where the school bus dropped him, to the small country house he called home. He counted the times he kicked that can, each day getting a little better and with more distance. Between kicks, he listened to the sounds around him, birds singing and insects buzzing. He looked at the fields on either side of the road, and somedays saw his dad plowing. He would jump up and down waving his arms, but only sometimes did he wave back.

     When he had graduated from high school, he was called to wear the uniform of a United States Marine. He missed his walks down the old country road and thought about it a lot, bringing him a sort of peace in a not so peaceful place. A bullet found him, and as he lied on the dry dirt road, his life seeping into the earth, he closed his eyes and imagined kicking that old tin can. He saw his dad on the tractor and waved. This time he waved back

     The Greyhound bus stopped at the foot of the dry dirt road. A young man stepped off and started the slow walk to that little country house. He kicked a can that went into the field, so he concentrated on the songs of the birds and the buzzing of insects. He watched as his shined boots became dusty and his steps became labor. He heard the sound of his dad’s tractor growing closer and closer until the red metal nose poked out of the field and stopped just a few feet away.

They didn't speak too much on the ride to the house. Some things just don't need saying. “Crops looking good this year” “Yep” “Something sure smells good” “Your mothers been cooking all week” “Going to need your help around here” A light rain began to fall, and the dusty road was just a memory. At least for a little while.

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