What An Opportunity

Barton Hollow.

In Life on April 12, 2012 at 4:51 am

Barton Hollow sits in a mild valley between two modest peaks.

A soft fog rolls down from the southern mount as the day quiets down.

The cloud settles on the grass, gently resting on the gravestones.

A rusted swingset creaks as the wind plays on the playground.

There is the faint laughter of children nearby.

The courthouse stands in the center of town, the timeless instrument still telling the hour.

The institution that embodies man’s condemnation to be free.

The marble stands erect but everyone has gone home for the day.

The old mill still runs.

There is smoke coming from the furnace somewhere in the north.

Not one soul has entered or left but the old mill still runs.

Best Ford axle rods this side of the mississippi.

The local tavern sits on the western edge of town.

Bottles cling as the working man lets his drink choice do all the talking.

Everyone knows everyone. and their kids. and that one cousin from the big city.

It’s a little colder now.

Something about this fog.

The bank, the post office, the mayor’s house, it’s all here.

But nothing seems right.

Maybe it’s the weather.

Or the feeling you get when you know you should say something and you don’t.

But something seems wrong.

The schoolhouse rests near the house of justice and men.

The teacher sits at her desk with her life’s achievement being the understanding of the many minds that enter her room.

She looks out the window, eyes a soft gray like the marble of the courthouse.

A blink and shes gone. the schoolhouse screams in its silence.

It is then that your feet move.

You hear footsteps behind you but your eyes cannot corroborate what your ears are saying.

Your gasps for breath are caught in your throat as the lowly cloud veils you eyes.

At last.

A place to rest.

The fence lends itself as a calming place.

Doubled-over, you raise your head from between your knees.

The fence holds the souls of those six feet under.

The gravestones tell of an inevitability that will endure when you are done with time.

The stoneworks call and your feet follow.

A deep weight befalls your eyes.

As you lay down beneath the warmth of the stone, a calm crashes over you as the waves on a beach.

Slowly, the grass grows longer than the height of your body.

The vines creep effortlessly over the knees and arms.

The ground slowly takes you as you slumber.

As the world becomes darker, a wry smile finds itself on your lips.

The schoolteacher smiles five feet up and blinks over her grey eyes.

Barton hollow sits in a mild valley between two modest peaks.

Those who visit never want to leave.


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