Over
the past month I have been able to find a few second and even a few minutes
here and there that have allowed me to let my mind meander about and pull
together different images and glimpses into the lives of fictional characters. Even
while trying to catch up on the blog, there were still a few much needed
moments when I needed to take a momentarily creative leave from reality. It is
still unclear as to what will be done with all of these little pieces and
whether they tie together somehow or if they are completely separate stories. So,
following my notes from New Jersey Transit uncovered in the beginning of August,
part 1 recorded in the middle of the month, and part 2 published a couple of
weeks ago, I bring you another installment in this sporadic series.
6AM
The neighborhood
kids called him Mr. Brown but he had many different monikers throughout his
life. Whenever they would call his name in the morning he would turn his head
and give him them a slight smile. No one said anything else to him. They let
him be and simply watched in silence as he went about his morning routine.
He peered out the
window each morning at 6am looking up at the sky. When the sun shone on the
horizon he would put on his slippers, a coat when the weather turned bitter,
and opened the front door with a slow and deliberate precision that baffled
those watching.
His purposeful
steps didn’t take him far. They carried him to the corner of his walkway and
into a gravel bed surrounding his flag pole. Her he would take the flag tucked
under his arm, unfold it, and raise the stars and stripes in a way that is familiar
to few but respected by all who witness the ceremony.
Every morning he
would pause at half-mast with a kind sadness in his eyes that revealed much
more about his routine. In a moment of stillness he seemed to mutter almost
apologetically before hoisting the flag to the top of the pole. Securing the
rope with a figure eight and solitary knot, he would then turn and return to
the front door stiffly closing it behind him as if trying to keep out the
memories.
When the sky
prepares to succumb to the night everyone watches as he emerges from behind his
seclusion almost with a sense of relief that the evening will soon descend and
another day will end in silence. He returns the flag to the earth folding into
a precise triangle, tucked it under his arm, and carried it with reverence back
into his home.
As the amber
deepens into red and before the purple hue of dusk, a small glimmer of yellow
can be seen waiving lightly from the trunk of his oak tree seemingly giving
farewell. The same bitter parting he was offered when his son was deployed.
And now the
tattered ribbon tethers the memories of a neighborhood as they all remember the
jovial laugh that would fill the small street every time Mr. Brown came home
from work. A laugh that only lives in distance echoes. But now there is only
night. Now there is only silence. For one more day.
