dead RVs

Scarves that I wound around my neck choke me as the itch of the wool catapults me to that broken down RV park that you took me to. The shimmering shards of broken beer bottles littered the place, turning the desolate landscape to a crystal garden.

That crudely assembled bench is still there, with the same nails sticking out. We sat there until the cold became too much to bear and you told me all about her.

The gently sloping hill gave way to a pathetic stream, strewn with old tires and 2 x 4 planks. Your eyes followed the trickling path until it bent around the brush and out of sight.

The hollow eyes of the blown out windows of the mammoth RVs stared at me bleakly as we left. Their sockets had no plugs, and their life was invariably extinguished until the rust consumed their shells. The carcass of a log lolled unsettlingly as we retreated in the distance, and a shiver ran through my heart, for I knew that these signs of death could not be good for us.