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Wandering Souls-3

September 30, 2013

  Out of the mix of Dewey’s heritage the Irish spoke strongest: his hair reddened gold going gray, his skin the color of milk and flushed with scarlet as if in permanent embarrassment.  In the sun he would never tan, but only burn and peel.  He was just a medium-sized guy, but the way he carried himself, his attitude and his direct gaze made him seem bigger than he was.
     He parked his old Jimmy on the street, then walked, shivering, through the weeping night to the front gate.  He was cold these days, a chill deep inside he couldn’t warm and he went to work wearing long johns.  And lined jeans, his old watch sweater, a hooded sweatshirt and a CPO shirt over that.  And he wore his watch cap and kept the sweatshirt’s hood up and cinched tight, peeking out from the cowl as if from a porthole.
     In the center of all this, bearing the layers of cotton and wool, he was still chilled, clammy and the weight of his dress seemed to push him in, closer to his central pain.
     It had been there, like some nagging wife, for nearly a year now; waning enough to ignore, yet never completely gone, leaving it’s hollow shadow, letting know it would return to fill this and ride him once more.

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