Here he sits, looking out his lone window onto a green tinted parking lot. The memories of another lost weekend slowly fading in his head. And the reality of his dreary, daily grind setting in, closing around him like a vice.
“We are not our names.”
Images flitter past like late afternoon sunlight though the trees on a country road. The feel and smell of rain, and heavy smoke filled air. The tastes of great food and cold beer still linger on his tongue. The solidarity of fellowship with his friends and family still warms his heart. It all helps to soothe the raw nerves of the daily existence.
“We are not our problems.”
The sounds of laughter and merriment still resonate in his head. The clang as a horseshoe collides with a pin as yet another rule is made. The dull thud and sharp crack as maul meets wood to undo what nature has brought together still split the deafening silence. As he searches for a meaning to what he does each day.
“We are not our age.”
The sensation of water closing in around his nylon clad legs, as he creeps deeper into a rain swollen creek. Anticipating with quickened breath, the “tap…tap” at the end of the line as a fish takes the bait. The joy of pulling a slippery writhing trout from a cold pool as the relentless spring rain falls around him. It’s all an escape from everything, and yet nothing.
“We are not our hopes.”
Soon they will all be distant echoes of yet another weekend in the mountains. And when the smoke has cleared and the sounds fade into his subconscious he will bring them to life once again. On another weekend, on another mountain he and his brothers will once again shine like the sun.
“Sometimes it’s not enough to be numbered with the grains of sand on the beach and the stars in the sky.”
