Chapter 47

47

Night is falling into the Colorado sky. A sprawling canopy of stars drapes itself over the Front Range and the moon, perched high above it all, looks like it’s been sculpted with florescent wax.

John and I are sitting on his front porch; a spring breeze gently jostles what’s left of his hair. Tiny wisps of it sway like stalks of wheat to inaudible music.

I light a cigarette while John puffs his pipe. I can tell he’s chewing on a question by the way his eyes are partially closed, like the weight of what he’s formulating is too heavy for his lids. He nurtures his query, raising it from a sapling until the oak of an inquisition sprouts from his mouth. You can’t rush this process, timing is essential in these matters. Instead, I drag into my cigarette and relax back into myself.

Earlier, just after a dinner of fried chicken and potato salad, John pulled out a small sack of marijuana he saves for special occasions. A bowl of weed and two glasses of wine have my knees somewhat rubbery, but my mind is alive and engrossed by this perfect Colorado night.

Many, many years ago I would have insisted, in this inebriated state, on conversation, filling the void between substance with pointless verbal drainage. At this stage in my life, at this particular junction in the evening, I’d be content if that question John is constructing in his mind never found the water to grow.

I don’t seem to have any answers, but I find myself in serenity just the same. Pleasant quietude engulfs my insides and although my mental mindfield is still moving in a general direction, I’m oddly at peace here on John’s patio, staring at the cloudless sky above me.

I have a burning urge to listen to something contemporary. Music with a pulse that will bounce out of the speakers and reverberate against the lattice that borders this wooden porch. If it’s a perfectly metered tune, perhaps it will develop wings and escape into the night air, perching itself next to the owl who continues to carry on his conversation alone.

After a myriad of minutes seeped in silence, John finally opens his mouth to suck in the air to speak.

“You know, I used to read every word you published, every book I poured through cover to cover, especially after Mary passed. And when I felt, in those first few years, like the canyon in my heart would never fill, your stories gave me hope that one day I’d be able to breathe again. I’ve always wondered Rich, and maybe this is just the wine talking, but I’ve always wondered, if your words could save a hopeless case like me, why couldn’t they do the same for you?”

“Jesus, John,” I reply, completely rocked by such a disturbance in my current state of mind. “Well, pack us another bowl and I’ll see if I can answer that.”