• Where The Wind Goes

    Where The Wind Goes

    "My name's Dylan."
    "They call me Killer."
    I went to shake his hand and he screamed. I held it for a minute and realizing it was busted up and swollen, i stroked in a gentle yet strange way amongst men and said, 
    "Dang look at your hand bro, you shoulda let him make it."
    "Sometimes you can't."
    "Yeah but sometimes you should."
    "But sometimes i don't."

    This is part of the conversation i had with Bryan Bradley a week before he was arrested and charged with murder. We talked a little more and he made a deal out of the side of his Lincoln Towncar. The wind and rain and clouds and darkness were all moving in from the east. 

    When i was little i used to hold my hand out the window of my Papa's red pickup truck and try and catch the wind. Probably coming back from the farm and just passing time and staring off somewhere and thinking, you know. I always thought maybe i would pull my hand back in and have a little whirlwind cupped right there in front of me. Woulda fit perfectly in a round fish bowl. It never worked though. It just went on the way it was going, taking things off with it when it could. Off to wherever the wind goes.

    The winds that command the courses of our lives through this sad and beautiful world can't be stopped or contained either once they get to blowing. Most times, leastways.