She was a radiant moonbeam taking flight. Something of a soft sonnet and a deep longing. The old barn yard lay blanketed in February snow. The fire crackled and sparked. Early morning. Wood burning stove. He had an old, faded colorless photo in his right hand. The year 1937 was scrawled on the back. After all this time her face could still leap from the photograph to snatch his heart straight out of his chest. Tears weld up in his eyes. For years he had tirelessly been waiting for spring … a spring that had never come.
He rocked back in forth in his easy chair with a shotgun laid across his lap. All he could hear was silence. All he cold feel was the unrelenting cold. He thought it strange, but in fact, one can actually hear silence more keenly then any sound. Some children, bundled up against the weather and walking to school, were passing the old farm house when they heard a sudden, faint pop. Like a firecracker or a flat tire. It erupted out of nowhere and in an instant was gone. It was surely something to make note of. Even if only for a moment, then let drop. Their thoughts turned quickly back to Christmas presents and fart sounds. They hurried on to catch the bus.
Inside the old farm house the man laid slumped in his easy chair. The rocking had ceased. Blood was splattered upon the wall behind him and a few drops had hit the roll top desk where he kept a bundle of letters marked “return to sender”. The photograph he had been holding rested on the floor at his feet. The silence returned, this time louder then ever.