Untitled

I opened the outer back door--thin, like aluminum foil; rickety on its hinge--rattling and loose. I stepped out into the brumal January evening. I usually hold onto the door until it clicks closed, but I let it slip from my hand and swing free. Instead of slamming shut with a hollow clank, it eased shut gently, emitting a hiss that would continue-- I never heard it shut completely--and it followed me as the wind crept over the twinkling snow dust in gentle gusts. The hiss would follow me through the snow across the street, softly sapping something living from my fingertips and from the end of my nose and the zenith of my head. I left something behind tonight--a poor friend lamenting the work ahead of him on third shift; laying in his bed with the quilt pulled up to his nose, basking in the blue flicker of the television, narrator explaining how canned green beans are actually cooked inside the can with a retort, trying to forget the reality ahead. I left that poor face and poor voice amidst the squeaking of the fine powdery snow beneath my Superstars. The hiss put a sad feeling inside where the warm blood was.