Any Port for the Coming Storm

The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them. Comparisons to ailing rodentia aside I was happy to see the place.

The gate creaked a weary hello and seemed to say something of the comforts of being not just home but “down home”. As a crowd lauding and laureling a returning hero the weeds gave my legs a hundred hugs hello leaving their gifts of briars and dandelion fluff. Jilted lover cast in oak, the door resisted my advances, but I found the key in time.

Surely this could once again be my refuge from a coming storm. I coughed then laughed my way through the cobwebs, mocking myself for having such vain hope. Darke County never was known for refuges or hope, not in my lifetime. Full of holes and even more full of memories, the crumbling edifice would simply have to do.

As would I.

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