Shadows

No sound except the soft clink of a Zippo as I light my last Lucky Strike. The steam rises off the lake in the early morning half-light tranquility fall brings along with yellow leaves and layers of chilling frost known to kill crickets, crack heads, and frogs. What’s it been now… one year exactly without you? When soldiers return home from war missing an arm or a leg, they sometimes still feel the phantom limb moving, speaking, and breathing. Perhaps it’s denial. A subconscious refusal to admit it’s gone. A refusal to admit they’re half-there, half-empty, and half-lost with clipped wings, bound feet, and the tedious task of re-learning how to breathe. A sort of un-death, muffled acceptance one finds after surviving a gunfight, car crash, or bitch slap. An inability to ignore the crumpled, concerned brows and helping hands offered by compassionate family and friends as you struggle to pull yourself up. Wipe my ass. Tuck me in. Kill me please and put me out of my misery. Another tug from an old flask my cousin gave me back when we were young and sang foolish songs about heartbreak and love. It’s this forlorn, excruciating pain limbless soldiers feel that course through my veins and valves into my rotten heart as I sit by the lake outside town. Desolation. Except for perhaps the nameless corpses sleeping below that are never coming home.