A butterfly landed on the barrel of his revolver. How incongruous he thought. It slowly opened and closed its wings. One of you again, he said. Last time I paid attention to you I was mauled by a lion. The butterfly stayed put opening and closing its wings, the yellow coloration had black ovals on each wing that made them look like eyes opening and closing. A butterflies life is only one day. Hed had fifty-three years. I bet hell experience more joy in that one day than Ive had in my entire life, John Henry thought wistfully. His trembling right hand, holding the pistol, had stopped with the butterflies arrival. He looked at the heavy weapon. It seemed so insistent to be used. The butterfly alighted from the gun barrel and took off in its zigzag direction, the same way John Henry had come. He smiled, uncocked his pistol and put it back in his pack. It had circled him three times. That was surely a sign. Later, somehow knowing the way back down the mountain to his truck, sitting in the cab he emptied the pistol of its one cartridge and put it in the glove compartment. He had the urge to throw the revolver into the river he was parked next to but instead took it from between his legs and put it back in his pack. John Henry started the engine, made a three point turn and moved slowly down the gravel road. The sun was a golden rim on top of the mountain seen through the lattice work of trees. They cast pronounced shadows on the road. He put on his sunglasses. To live only one day and be completely a part of this beauty would be enough, for now. excerpt from THE CAVE PAINTER TR
Posted on: Sun, 02 Feb 2014 10:03:10 +0000
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