Driftwood (another story from the cobwebbed closet)

DRIFTWOOD
by Michael Kroetch

There, on the side of the bridge, is an old man made of string. If you go over to him and try and talk, he won’t talk. It’s like he’s forgot how. It’s like it’s something he did in some other place that he doesn’t do here. Anymore at least. Anymore he doesn’t do much of anything. He sings. Sometimes. When he’s alone. Maybe making himself some beans. A song will come out of him. Some old song that nobody else can remember. Something he sang in church as a child. A piece of the past flopping about in his head like some chunk of driftwood. But it doesn’t mean anything. Could just as easy be the words of a TV commercial as far as he’s concerned. He’s past all that. He’s had too much happen to him. You can see it in his face. He doesn’t let himself feel much anymore. Maybe he’s forgot how. Feelings not really happening, just drifting along in the sand. Pieces of wood softened by the wind, softened by the pounding waves so they’re smooth and dry and light as air.

You look at his old body and you wonder if it’s still alive. And how it keeps going. Or why. Surely the time of use has passed for this man. What can he possibly hope for when the sun comes up on his bridge? He has had the same beans so many years now that they have no more flavor than a pot full of stones. Yet near as he is to being a stone himself, when the sun does come up through the trees, and if he’s there, you’ll see him smile. Just a little.