Memories of Times When I was Exuberant and Free

Close your eyes. Imagine a barbeque shack.

Faded red paint on hand-hewn timbers. Mesquite smoke curled in pine boughs.

A man is chopping wood. Flames blaze next to him from a charred iron vessel, it once belonged on a submarine.

A bell rings and woman appears at the door of the shack.

She holds a jar and dips her finger into it. When she pulls it out, it’s orange, dripping dark and rusted liquid, like a clinging puddle of autumn.  She holds it out toward the man.

He puts down the ax.  Walks over and licks her finger.

“You did it Tilly. This tastes like a time when I was exuberant and free.”