Francine Witte

Love never dies out quickly when it’s swirlin’ in the wind. Just ask Junior, dust bowl farmer, whose got nothin’ left but his shoes. Wife took off with the last of the cash. Left him a note on a matchbook ­ I love you, but I need to eat.

Now, Junior sits on the porch step, rubbin’ the grit off his hands. From nearby woods, the howl of animals warn him of loneliness growin’ like corn. He don’t listen. Instead, he thinks of the son he could have had if only his wife had given him more time.

This is a dream that got fixed in his head when he was a little boy. When his daddy got called to the Great War and later came home in a U.S. telegram.

Junior would never leave no son. He would never be no soldier. He don’t like to think about the Europe war, or listen to it whisperin’ its way to Pearl Harbor.

He just likes to sit and think about his almost son. So, tonight it’s just Junior and the wolves and the prairie wind. His heart achin’ for his long-gone wife, the moon risin’ up like a ghost.

First published: February 2005
comments to the writer: Knob'sWriter@iceflow.com