Footprints in the Sand

The tap of Betsy’s steering wheel on his forehead knocked at the door to Harry’s dwindling consciousness. The vague views of her floor mats pried at the windows to his vanishing awareness. More molten memories meshed with his receding reality and he was lost once more to the years gone before.
Where was he now? An empty road, off in the distance, barely visible, a small house, sat shimmering like a mirage. Suddenly upon it, he slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the truck, and examined the slightly damaged dollhouse apparently lost and forgotten in the middle of the deserted pavement.



Harry hugged himself as the painful images played before him. There he was, struggling with the heavy cable, winching the dollhouse on to Betsy’s trailer, watching, then running, as the telephone pole snapped and fell in slow motion toward him. He flinched as the memory hit him like a ton of bricks or like a few thousand pounds of telephone pole.



A spray of sand rained around him. Now it seemed, he walked, leaving only faint footprints in the sand that dissipated with the rays of the setting sun. The wind was soft and warm. Then there were golden locks blown askew and left as one with the sandy soil. The parallel tracks across her abdomen led to a distant puff of smoke.
Unghuh. The muddled memories were too much and he succumbed to the blackness, hitting his head once more on Betsy’s steering wheel causing a slight rightward shift in the direction of her mighty Michelins. Still, she trundled onward.



To be continued…