text: Homer Eliza Washington sat in his rocking chair on his front porch rocking and smoking his pipe. If there were anywhere in the world Homer would like to be it was here, looking out upon the large expanse of well cut grass that was his front lawn and taking scope of the surrounding landscape. Far down the slight slope of his front yard ran Hitch Road; a narrow piece of dirt that bent and curved every so often yet lay hidden from his view by the long row of Maple trees with their branches spreading out and intertwining with the one another to form a natural screen extending as far left and right as Homer could see, hiding Hitch with their array of crimson, brown, burnt orange, tinged yellow and red leaves. Ever since Spring replaced Winter and gave way to Summer three months ago Hitch Road remained nearly invisible to Homer from his perch on the porch. Oh it existed all right. Every so often a car would pass with their tires grinding down on pebbles or fallen twigs making a pinging noise as the debris hit the metal bodies of their cars as they passed in front of his house, sometimes at a fearful speed confirming Hitch still afforded a road people could travel upon on their way into town or points east or west. A forgotten and seldom used road perhaps, but nonetheless, a road. From the round, white wicker table next to his rocking chair he picked up his Mason jar filled with his homemade hard apple cider and took a gentle sip. At his age he had to be careful the amount of alcohol he consumed. “Not like the ol days uh, Homer. When a pint would go down like water. No sir. No, not like the old days.” He set the jar down and took a puff of his pipe. A westerly gust ran across the porch and set off the wind chimes hanging from the porch’s ceiling. Homer watched as the Maple trees swayed and bent a bit from the sudden wind. His eyes followed a flock of Maple leaves separated from their twigs being flung about without abandon. Eventually they would land somewhere, turn brown and die. Homer sighed realizing what was once vibrant and alive will wither and die to corrode and disappear as if they never existed. “Like us, we live to die.” Homer mused as he tapped his pipe’s bowl clean. When he was younger he didn’t really pay too much attention to the changing of the seasons. During summer he swam in the lake, camped out with his dad at their log cabin, fished the stream or rode his bicycle into town. When fall came and snatched away all the sunshine and warmth he merely switched from wearing shorts to long pants and tennis shoes to hiking boots. In fact, he enjoyed kicking about the fall leaves and playing on Jasper High School’s football team, The Jay Hawks. A smile came to him remembering how good he was. First string halfback. If he hadn’t broke his leg his senior year and if his dad hadn’t died, well, he might have played professional football or baseball. “No use thinking about what could have been Homer. You’ve walked that parade for far too long. Best leave it before it starts. Besides, there ain’t no power on Earth can take you back or change the hands of time.” He placed his pipe on the wicker table and picked up the jar. “One more sip ain’t gonna hurt nothing. It ain’t like you have somewhere to go now, is it?” He let out a laugh. No, he had nowhere to go for sure. His eighty years of life have led him here and here is where he will stay until he dies. He took a cautious sip and set down the Mason jar. Another gust, this one a bit cool, brushed up against him and set off the chimes again. September was only four days old and here the winter winds were trying to push out the little warmth left in the air. Damn Winter. “Now that is one cruel season. It sucks all the energy you stored up during spring and summer right out of you. There ain’t nothing good about winter.” He shivered at the thought of hunkering down, being snowed in and not being able to walk to the lake or across his land or sit here rocking and smoking his pipe. Being a fossil didn’t help either . He looked to his right and mentally measured the racks of wood he had stacked up at the end of the porch to get ready for winter. He had enough wood to last until March if Winter dug in deep this year. He rocked a bit and listened to the chair’s curved slats creak against the wood floor of the porch. The repetitive creaks and motion of the back and forth of his body being rocked, the soft notes of the wind chime as a breath of wind played against it began to set his mind at ease. And though he always knew he was powerless to stop the changing of the seasons or turn back the hands of time he had reached a certain peace in his life long ago accepting the things he could not alter. What was done, was done. No use fretting about what was. Another breeze, much warmer than the previous others, caressed his body reminding him summer is still hanging about as it danced across the porch setting the chimes alive before scurrying down his front lawn to rustle the Maple trees. He noticed again that a few of the Maple leaves, even with a mild touch of wind, were falling, some floating straight down while others taking flight. A car sped by, its image pulsating like a strobe light between the Maple trees. “Young folks no doubt in a rush to get to nowhere.” Homer leaned back in the rocker and rocked some more remembering those days in his youth when his dad let him take the car into town. He was only thirteen then and had a hard time reaching the gas pedal let alone remembering to push the clutch in, shift into gear then step on the gas. Like the seasons he was powerless to remain young and filled with that great optimism of youth. I could have done anything, I suppose. Been anyone. He put the mental brake on hard. “Damn it man. Stop that type of thinking.” Just then a cloud blocked the sun turning the sky a light gray. A brisk wind swept across the porch sending a chill through Homer. “Time to go in young man.” He slowly got to his feet. Took hold of his mason jar and walked to his front door. He turned to look out at his front lawn. The sky was growing darker and a few drops of rain were starting to fall. “Might as well go in, make your tea and settle down for the night Maybe the son will call. Maybe.” He sighed as he turned the doorknob of the screen door. Like the seasons, growing old and thinking about the past was a futile endeavor. And the future. Well, maybe one day something will change it, but for today he could only live for what is now. He’ll never change his son nor will his son ever change when it came to him. Homer opened the door leading into foyer. Nor will he ever call.