Monday, October 16, 2017

"the cabriolet"

An unheard susurus of joyful expletives erupted when the old man opened and then stood in the door. Little and large, they all knew he would come at sundown and finally, there he was, their talisman and troubadour. He opened the door quietly and stood looking at the bounding silence that greeted him, then walked to the chair they knew he would sit in, the one near the fire.

He began, as often, like a man standing in an open and untended plain.

"The cabriolet," he started and then stopped. He had them all, all of their all, in that single word, at the waning of the day. Butterflies of wonder flitted and swooped from old and young as the sun went down. Surely butterflies must make noise in flight, but their noise is silent. Jeee-sus-fucking-Christ! How does that work?

I don't know and neither did they. Their backbones eased downward where they sat -- against chair backs and wall plaster ... eased ... easier ... easiest. The floor beneath them was confirmed. The wait was over and the warmth was to begin. Warm and silent as a herd of winging butterflies:

"The cabriolet..."

Oh, oh, oh ... lepidoptereforous!