I woke up to rain again. How many days since the last time I saw the sun, I cannot tell you. The musk, mold and dampness that surrounds me is heavy like being pulled down by the weight of thick kudzu. I have to get out of this house for various reasons. My sanity being number one.
I now carry on conversations with Dog and Habana. They both came to me, Dog after the first storm when the line was drawn and Habana in the middle of a level five looking for shelter. The horse has a name only because it is tooled in the leather of her saddle. Dog came to me without a calling card.
This morning is no different as I open the door and urge Dog out to take care of business. With coffee in hand, I tell him to report back if there are changes in the weather. He smirks. Even he realizes the rain will never end.
Another big one is coming, too. Last night I found myself cowering and scratching at my ratty beard with every blow to the roof. I need to get supplies before it really hits.
Joe, my contact to the other side of the line and supplier, always quizzes me on reasons for staying in this mess? Go north, he tells me, but it is not that easy. No one waits for me up north. My family is here. The visits are all I have.
I walk back through the hall and place one hand on the plaster that blocks the entrance to our bedroom. It was my last chore after burying her near the Magnolia. Those trees are so strong. I watch the wind throw the branches to the ground repeatedly, but they bounce back like a fresh fighter weaving in the ring.
The plaster feels damp with moisture, but a warmth spreads through my fingers and into my hand inching its way past my wrist and into my arm. Is this a real or imagined sense? I can no longer tell. I must get out of this house.
She tells me to go, too. We will be fine. Habana whinnies in the background and the spell is broken. I walk back to the kitchen placing the mug on the counter then grab a cap. I hunch in the rain to save my front from getting wet and run to the barn. She is ready for open pasture.Mississippi native, Michael Farris Smith, shares an apocalyptic adventure filled with foreboding in his first book set near the lawless Mississippi coast titled, Rivers. I sense the ghost of Capote rearing his Southern Gothic head amongst the sad Larry Brown trash. My feelings toward this book are all warm and fuzzy, though. It is destined to win awards.