A drab black suit hanging in the old pine closet in the older man's room. Coat and pants, draped over a white shirt on a wooden hanger, a black narrow necktie hanging across its narrow collar, all neat and ready. It has hung for three generations, the back almost gone from the moths cavorting and taking it apart thread by thread.
A horse upon the fence column, steady as a rock, holding the gate wide open, the air of pride and thoughtfulness, staring back deeply at those who enter there. The paint worn then painted again, many times, til the rust pours through creating its look of ambiance.
The windmill, in the front yard, the blades set on the wheel, the ladder up still holding, the water spigot standing upright down below, it's spine as strict and rigid as it's day of being put in, the rust filling out the colors, it is locked in motion.
The last piece of play, the merry-go-round, the silver platform, the bent pipes that held the children's hands, the circular rut in the dirt that chirped out the footsteps of being pushed and ridden for miles and miles and miles.
All these things are wound around one another, and tied tightly with the memories of the days gone by, and have breathed the breaths of those who have genuinely lived their lives.
Ralph Peck
Photo by Ralph Peck
Outside of Salina Oklahoma
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