Static Reflections

I wake before the crow of the rooster shatters the solace of dawn. It was luck that granted me the transition from swing shift to mornings at the Paper Mill where he’d worked nights for nearly ten years. Now an early riser, cohabitation with the neighboring animals seemed simple, by design. I rise before the household stirs and brew a pot of coffee, the usual routine. The quiet is loud, almost electric. The only sounds are the bubbling of the machine and the creaking of the old wooden floors. I open the ornate white cabinets, carved from the old barn doors. My favorite mug awaits. The Father’s Day gift from my eldest son reads, “#1 DAD.” I sit at the dining table covered by a floral cloth, hand stitched by my wife, and open the paper to an article about the attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan. The crow of the rooster sounds in the distance.

The first glimpse of sunlight peaks over the hill as I make my way to the wooden shed in the backyard. I unhook the bike from the rack and slip into a helmet and reflective vest. I ride up and down the hills of south Georgia, the morning breeze rustling the fields of peach trees. Their dancing limbs greet me with a calm appreciation of a new day. Brilliant greenery reflects a golden hue in the morning light, and the countryside buzzes with sounds of life. The sky transforms and breaks apart with every mile traveled. Pitch black fades to glowing hues of orange and pink, the vibrant colors stretching like veins behind the clouds. I ride until the donkey brays in the distance, and it’s time to return.

I creep through the house as quietly as possible so as not to disturb my family. The boys are still asleep in the backroom, my daughter resting in the other. I pass through the hall, into our bedroom, and kiss my sleeping wife on the forehead before heading to the shower. I switch on the radio to NPR and keep the volume low while the water runs. The news buzzes of Reagan’s attacker. My steel toed boots wait at the front door. I lace them tightly, grab the lunch from the fridge prepared by my wife the night before, and hop into the little red Ford pick up truck. I light a cigarette as I pull out of the driveway and head towards the factory. I wonder, as I often do on mornings like this, is this freedom?

Something wakes me from the depths of sleep. An uneasy feeling grips at my chest. I peek through the crack in the bedroom door and into the hall. It is perfectly dark until a soft glow emerges from the boys’ room. I slide out from under the sheets, careful not to wake my sleeping wife, and step lightly with precise calculation of the floorboards. The old planks creak beneath my feet, inevitably making my presence known and spoiling any illusion of surprise. The silence is so loud, my staggered breath echoes inside my ears. I hope to find the boys playing with their Hot Wheels, but they both lay still under their blankets. A dim light hovers above my eldest in his bed. Below, I see his shadow. The man is stoic, perched like a statue at the foot of the bed, watching as my child sleeps. I do not know him, but I swear that I have seen him many times before. I wake again, gasping for air. I calm myself, catch my breath, and glance at the clock at the side of the bed. The time reads five A.M. I rise and start the day.

I travel through the old house, towards the kitchen, and start the coffee. The paper waits on the table, and I attempt to concentrate on the failed assassination of our dearly beloved president. I try harder than ever to digest the contents of the news, but the silence screams over the recollection of my foggy dream, skewing my thoughts and perceptions. A sharp ring of the telephone cuts through the quiet, and I startle to attention, spilling coffee onto my wife’s elegant laced tablecloth. I jump and pull the phone from the wall before it can ring a second time and disturb my resting household.

“Burnette residence.” Silence follows. I pause in wait. “Hello?” A staggered breathing responds from the other side, and the line is abruptly cut… beep beep beep. I hang up the phone and shake my head to clear my thoughts. I clean the spilled coffee, wash my mug in the sink, and place it back inside the ornate pink cabinets that my wife hand carved from the old barn doors. I head outside to the shed in the backyard, find my riding gear and prepare for my morning journey.

The sun peaks over the hill, and I inhale a deep breath of crisp morning air. The rooster crows, and I set off down the road. I pass by the empty fields, freshly churned for their next crop rotation. The countryside is never as beautiful as when the peach trees are planted and in bloom. I instead admire the bare majestic branches of the ancient pecan trees that line the roads. The gray clouds part as the sun rises, and I ride for hours, awaiting the donkey’s bray. The sounds of nature are softer than usual.

I return home, and the sky is darker than before. The wind stirs with an unexpected crack of thunder. The foundation of our home shakes, and the wooden swing on the porch sways as if someone is sitting on it. I hurry inside, try to not wake the kids, and strap on my steel toed boots. The red pick up is not in the driveway, and I dare not wake my sleeping wife, so I grab the keys to the red Cadelac. I pull away from the house as the rain pours down.

I dream that I am walking. The wooden floors creak beneath me as I move with caution. I enter each room, and they are all vacant. Where has everyone gone? I head towards the living room. A dim light illuminates the darkness. My daughter is there, sitting by the fireplace, the flames casting shadows over her face. She holds what looks like an urn in hands. A single tear lands on the brick beneath her. The man is there, standing behind her, unmoving, unbreathing, watching. I step into the light. His head turns, and his eyes match mine. They are empty. The rooster crows, and I startle awake, gasping for air.

I go to the kitchen and start the morning brew. The paper is waiting on the pink tablecloth next to a photo of my family. My children all look older than I remember. The lines surrounding my wife's eyes are deeper than before. I don’t know when the photo was taken. Maybe I have been too absent, working too much, rising too early. I read of the weapon used in an attempt to strike down our nation’s most loved president. The rooster crows, and I pour my coffee into a mug that I have never seen. The only options are an unfamiliar China collection inside plain gray cabinets that look nothing like those that my wife carved herself from the barn doors. I guess that she decided to order the cabinet installation while I was away. I shouldn’t be bothered with her wanting something new, more modern. We work so hard.

I dress myself and head outside to my bike. The morning air is colder than expected. I ride past budding peanut fields. It is the dead of winter, and I wonder what has inspired the farmers to plant such a crop in this season. It is still dark, and the sun has not yet risen over the hill. I ride for hours, taking in the scenery, the leaves are just beginning to change as if fall is approaching. Their shades of green fade to orange and red. The bugs are silent, and the birds are gone. I near the same farm I’ve ridden past for years and see the donkey roaming the fields for the first time. The young colt greets me with his bray. I wonder if the family has added another creature to their collection. I’ve heard the donkey cry for years, maybe seven or eight. He is merely a foal. I turn back towards home although dawn has hardly broken. When I arrive, there are no cars in the driveway.

 I dream that I am in a library. It is an unfamiliar space that I somehow recognize. Wooden shelves stretch up to the ceilings, stocked with a collection of my favorite books. The walls are painted the same deep blue that matches the color of the boys’ room. A framed photo of myself hangs across from where I sit. My hair is gray and sparse, and my eyes are sunken and hollow. Have my features declined so rapidly? I rise from a leather seat that I do not know and follow the smell of a lit cigarette. My wife sits on the porch swing with a cordless phone against her ear, her expression troubled. I shouldn’t bother her. I move to the living room and find my youngest son asleep on the couch. He looks more like me than I remember. He is aging too, the baby fat dissolving from his cheeks. A beautiful pamphlet with cursive font and golden embellishments sits on the coffee table. I creep slowly towards it to get a closer look. The floors beneath my feet do not make a sound. The front page reads, “In loving memory of -” a looming shadow catches my eye. The man is there, standing in the doorway with his back to me. He is unmoving, staring at himself in the grand mirror that hangs in the hall. Our eyes meet in the reflection, and I see only myself looking back. 

The rooster crows, the donkey brays, and I jolt awake, choking for air. I roll and gasp, frantic to catch my breath, gripping the sheets, reaching for my wife, but she isn’t there. The man sits and stares from the foot of the bed.