The border of trees, naked, limbs like arthritic hands, made of coal, stand unmoving as the gun colored fog rises from it’s hidden abode and breaches the cordon of slumbering entities.
Stealthily , void of sound, it crosses the ink hued waters, silently steals up the frosted banks, and without notice entrenches for assault on my damaged ground.
My old friend returned to share a drink with me. I didn’t hear his feet upon the cabin floor nor receive notification of his passing. While enjoying a bit of comfort I mistakenly left the door unbolted, which to him has always been a sign of invitation to my hearth. I must say, I am always a bit startled when I enter the room to find him quietly sitting.
I can’t recall how long we have known one another, or even our introduction; it seems as if we have always been familiar, but him of me, more than I of him. I call him friend, not out of friendliness, but from time accrued. Truthfully assessing our relationship would have me admit that I really do not like him at all; surely, I have enjoyed his company from time to time, but out of youthful melancholy. I don’t know why he has always been so fond of me.
His visits often last for months, though recently they are fewer and far between. He’s really not a person that brings warmth to a place; his appearance is grim, his countenance is consumption.
Draining, he is; the fire, quivering in the corner, recedes before his presence, food is un-filling, and drink is un-quenching.
I’ve never been a good host; when he visits I rarely speak, offering little to the union. We sit at my worn table; I with my arms folded, and he with his flickering yellow eyes set deep in his black face, searching my heart for the liquid that fills his cup. His voice not heard, but felt, like a hive of droning hornets, recalls and places before me the wretchedness of times past and proposes fearsome futures. Shifting my gaze, I look about the chamber for artifacts that might spur some lighter conversation, but to no avail; he commands his ensnared audience.
Rising, I reach for the iron to stoke the fire, hoping to provoke a flame and warm the cold that is embracing the space, maybe fuel the embers to lick at his heels and drive him into the night air, to move him along on his way. My selfish desire; for him to find some new friend, some new dwelling where he can draw his quarter and be done with me.
I lay the final piece of kindling upon the waning blaze, wishing it were his funeral pire.
He cranes his crooked neck to squarely place his lamp-like gaze upon me and continues his growling murmur.
Drink your fill my friend, drink your fill and go!
