I can't see to the end of the road anymore, yet I know it's there somewhere between the rows of corn and fields of strawberries. I'll never grow tired of the smells out here where summer rains linger, and soft breezes move the hanging sheets like a chorus line in a faraway city. It's been a while since I counted my footsteps from the front porch to the mailbox that sits by the road, but they don't change much except maybe get a little slower. I reach and look inside, but the box is empty, which is typical because bills are paid online, and writing a letter with scented paper is long forgotten. I stand there for a bit in case Ray, the mailman, is running late, but that is just wishful thinking as he is the poster child of the mail service and never lets anything stop him from his appointed rounds. I turned and headed for the house where supper would be cooking, with the smells soon reaching my nose and grumbling stomach. Four hundred forty-six steps is what I counted as the screen door slammed behind me, and the only counting was the number of times I asked for more.
MO
No comments:
Post a Comment