Distractions

Distractions
by Wynn Everett
“On the way back from Rockport you’re more likely to catch
the end of a Texas tailstorm than some other routes,” he’d whisper,
cigarette in hand. His words of wisdom stayed with me like the rings
of smoke he’d puff around my face each morning. I’d never been
outside of Angleton nor fully understood the definition of a tailstorm.
“If a man would learn to pray, let him go to sea,” that was another one
he’d blow in my eye, like some big tent preacher in a brothers grimm
revival. An old man with a fifty foot boat – can’t help but raise
the temperature of an anchored boy. I’d tilt and nod my head
as I devined what was passed down to me. It’s not that I minded
his talk while I worked, though I hadn’t a clue what he was talking
about, it was more the dull ache of my frozen fingers and
the knowing I’d never know.