Terry Newcomb

tool shed

Nothing worked anymore. My legs gave out. My eyes gave out. My heart gave out. Everything was out. The staff had told me they could do nothing for me, nothing more. I was free to go. The slough of winter was pretty much imponderable. I had my playthings though. A bucket of rice. A can of field peas. And some straw mushrooms. With them, I could build most anything. A tower. A cabin. A well on the lurch, right on the precipice of tipping. So I knocked down my neighbors’ wind chimes and pinned a note to the tree telling them that I had only so much time left. Everybody does. And I preferred to go out with mine intact, in peace. Not with some lazy bonging around the clock at all hours every time a breeze blew. It really only takes the tiniest amount of imagination to fill up every crack here and there in the world. And if you don’t, then darkness moves in of its own accord, like lightning and thunder. Then the dark clouds take up so much space there is no space left for anybody to breathe. It was not such a bad thing to use up the little force I had had left within me to push that back. And I did, may God have been my witness, and help me.

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