Mahogany skin: sunwarm, after all these years still calling. I think I can feel it purring when I let my hand trace its smooth hull. A vibration tempting me to leave.
But when I close my eyes, I’m once again inside the Humvee: in the silence afterwards, in smell of blood, a crimson mess where once were legs and arms. Before the phantom-pains kept me from sleeping.
“I think it’s time to sell the canoe.”
Your voice is broken like my body.
I nod as you slowly pull me back into the shade of our house.
We are all defeated.
We had a beautiful Mahogany canoe just like the one in Jenifer’s picture, and it brought back memories. That was the starting point, and as usual my thought went the melancholy way. I have not lost my arms or legs, and wish that I could jump into the canoe and just paddle away sometimes.
Friday Fictioneers is a wonderful opportunity to write fiction run by Chief Rochelle, 100 words on the same picture. Join us.