Morganton Winters
by Michael Robinson
“Dinner’s already cooked” his father said as Bobby walked into living room. He was seated in a recliner that faced away from the door. He stared off into a cold fireplace.
“Just put it in the stove to warm it up,”
“Alright Dad.”
“Then go to your room do your homework and get to bed,” he said more to the fireplace than to Bobby.
“Alright dad.”
Patrick looked over as Bobby passed the recliner on his way to the kitchen.
“What’s that on you arm,” he asked
“OH, it just a bandage, I hurt it at practice,”
“Why didn’t Coach Parks call and tell me something was wrong,”
“We just figured it would be ok. It doesn’t hurt or anything,”
“Well, next time I better know if something like this happens. We can’t afford you getting hurt on account of ya’ll figuring things are ok.”
“Yes sir, it won’t happen again.”
Bobby went to the kitchen. Over-cooked pork chops sat on the counter with a side of peas. This is when he missed his mother the most, dinnertime. Sometimes he would sit at the table and imagine mounds of fresh biscuits, sitting next to honey glazed ham and collard greens.
By the time he was done with his meal the sun was all but gone. He grabbed a flashlight from the drawer next to the sink and went to his room. He would spend the rest of the night there. Tonight it wasn’t so bad—he didn’t feel as lonely. Bobby grabbed his math book and went to his desk. By question three he knew his efforts were useless. He closed the book and tossed it next to his backpack. Bobby laid down on his bed clutching a pillow. He turned towards the window to the left of his bed. It was naked; the patterns his mother was going to use to make curtains so long ago had disappeared. Peering into the dark night, Bobby pondered what his next meeting with the girl he’d just met would be like. He imagined sitting on the creek’s bank twirling her brown ponytail between his fingers as she lay on his chest. He was beginning to know what this feeling was. He knew it couldn’t be good.
