by WILSON KOEWING
Seeing people on the sidewalk is no longer what it used to be. These days, people cross the street. Often, the sidewalks are empty. Odie the hound dog and me are always on sidewalks. He demands morning and evening walks and it’s the least I can do to oblige him. He brings me consistent happiness, unlike any of the other things in this world. He’s not yet two, but I worry daily about the shortness of his life. I’ve been smoking more and drinking more, still. I’m starting to feel the weight of the years. I worry that any day a devastating medical diagnosis is coming. I act like if I don’t go to the doctor, all will be fine. But I’ll be dead in what seems like a moment and that’s just the truth. I read an article that said scientists now believe the brain lives for a minimum of four hours after the rest of the body dies. So, the idea of an instant death, a quick peace, is unlikely. Unless you Hunter Thompson. Or Tony Scott off a bridge. Or James Dean. But even then, who knows? As if I wasn’t terrified enough of death. Which is why I’m always trying to tiptoe as close to it as I can to steal a glance. Seek comfort. It’s tragic that Odie will never be from the South. Or that he can’t speak. Or that he won’t listen. Though I have no discipline myself, so how could I expect to be a disciplinarian. I find nothing bolder than hypocrites, because hypocrisy is refusing. It would be strange to be leashed and walked, but sometimes I feel I crave it. But what would walk me? And how strong would the impulse in me be to become unleashed? Can I? Will I? How does one become unleashed? Mesmerizing. The mountains you can glimpse down so many Denver streets. Yet my mind drifts to the Piedmont of the Carolinas where there are no mountains of which to speak. My father is growing older and that’s strange to witness. He was my age the last time he started to seriously work out again with dumbbells. Strong and always moving. He drove boats and water skied. Now he spends most of his time confined to chairs. He had this book with pictures of a man doing different exercises. It’s still in his walk-in closet, which for decades has remained his only alone place. A photo of his late father hangs in there. And a photo of his late brother. Long unused scuba tanks rest in the corner. Once, when I was young, I rummaged through his things and found a Barely Legal magazine under a couple home repair magazines clearly placed on top to hide it. How late into life do we lust for youthful flesh? So many fragmented childhood memories. What were the good ones? I always did love the Carolina coast. Maybe that’s what I’ll finally do today, like I always feel drawn to do. Put Odie in the back, get in my car and travel east and then more east until I hit the Carolina coast on fumes. Some daydream of mountains, others islands, I dream of nostalgia, for that family beach trip when I was a child on the Carolina coast.
WILSON KOEWING is a writer from South Carolina. His work is forthcoming in Wigleaf, Gargoyle, Scrawl Place and Autofocus. His memoir “Bridges” is forthcoming from Bull City Press.
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REVOLUTION JOHN 