When he sets his pipe down, the room is still fragrant with his blend of tobacco, even a wisp of smoke lingers, he is tired, the days at its end, for most of us, and from a place I have yet to understand, he says, you up for a walk. I’m not, but I sure ain’t saying no.
We pile on jackets, choppers, and out the door we go. First, we bring back the morning’s two buckets of firewood, set by the door. No sense opening the door; we will bring the wood in and only open the door once, but he wants a walk. It’s cold, not forty below cold, but cold enough, and the wind, oh I want it at my back, but it’s his walk, he takes it right in the face.
Stars glimmer, our breath exits in personal clouds, like chest ghosts, and mine is shivering, he seems to not even notice, as we pass the bird feeder, he mentions, tomorrow morning, you could top that off for me, I say, yes, sir. Can’t have my chickadees disappointed ya know. I half open my mouth with another yes, sir.
He asks, “Are you cold, if you are we can go back.” I said “Doc, I’m doing fine.” I lied through my most recent frozen tooth filling. Well then, let’s take the high trail, come back over the river, it’ll be frozen solid, but I just like that bridge, that’d be ok with you. The shortest warm lung answer I could give was yet another simple, “Yes, sir.”
The motion in my movements help, it’s pretty cold tonight, but how he just takes it all in. Oh, I wanna grow old like he is, but he’s taking it to the cold. I ask him to stop, he does, I shake his thickly gloved hand. He says, “Pretty cold tonight, but I knew nobody else would go with me.” And then, he thanks me. That frigid spirit in my chest thanked him.
- The Trout Whisperer
