Unwritten

He sat staring into the coffee watching small vines of oil with pale gray leaves of steam swirl into existence within the stained porcelain wall of the cup before blowing off the surface in gossamer threads that disappeared in the air.

By the time he reached the feed barn it was a little after six in the morning. He put the wheelbarrow under the shoot and pulled the chain releasing a deafening stream of pellets that fell in a dust cloud which smelled of molasses and grass.

The dirt road curved out over blind turns, each holding some hidden trailer or dilapidated home tucked away behind the trees like guarded fortresses aged and forgotten in their self-imposed isolation.

Once a month he made the drive to visit his parents. Usually on a Sunday. His mother liked him to go to church with her, so he rose before dawn. He stood in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee, looking out the window and wondering how far Mr. Smallwood had progressed.

The day was hot, and by the time he reached the trailer his skin was covered with a gritty layer of dust that blew from the road and through the open windows of the truck and stuck to the sweat that covered his skin and dripped down his face and salted his lips.

He drove the back roads alongside the railroad tracks that fed the machine works and the foundry. Along the back side of town, the bowling alley was full of cars. He used to go there with a few professors and some of the more learned alcoholics.

When he drove down from the upper pasture, he saw Nathan’s truck parked alongside the stable half empty of hay bales. He parked next to him and stood beside the large wooden doors pulled open on their slides, which were older than the barn itself.