The Country Raconteur Defeats Cliche

~ Brett Foster Paring his nails as his wife mends, he makes it sound like yesterday. Her smile from the rocker portends the outcome of what he means to say. He swears he's old and not much good, legs won't hold for coalers' dances. But there's fire behind what occurred within the Church of St. Francis, where they met and planned their hard life. She desired what he was, homegrown son of a mining clan, whose waifs packed the parish in Morgantown. When I saw her I thought my heart had stopped. Mouth open, he stares wildly – here, now – beyond the davenport down some phantasmal, pew-lined aisle. I, while he folds his army blade, decide he said that worn-out phrase free of all dullness, but instead reverently precise. Amazed, he captured it well and realized everything the moment meant: bright covenant and him paralyzed, made speechless, almost, by the sight.