The Autumn Air

 Most people can smell autumn in the air, but not him. He can taste it. The sweetness of change swirls within his mouth and teases his taste buds. But as surely as he removes a whiskey flask from his jacket, the sweetness is washed away.

It is here, on this mountaintop, where life's decisions have been made and forgotten. This is where the crossroads in his life disguise themselves as dead end streets. On this mountaintop hope springs eternal, and hopes are dashed. 

And so the whiskey flows past his lips with relative ease. There was a time in his life when he wouldn't have touched the stuff. But those days have long since past. Now it flushes down the pain and suffering of life. It fills the constant pit in his stomach with the emptiness of his existence. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

His eyes reveal a lifetime of despair and misery - where disappointment is as common as a cold. The town below knows this all too well, and no doubt it will mock his return, as it has countless times before. When he listens closely he can hear the echoes of caddy laughter ringing throughout the valley. Instinctively, the flask finds his lips again.

Gray skies push down from above him. Clouds swirl about his head and within it. The denim of his jacket is as faded as the rest of him. By habit, he covers the jacket's holes with his hands - afraid everyone will see right through him. Occasionally, he pulls at the frayed threads surrounding the holes - picking off one after the other. With each thread he wonders more and more where he went wrong.

Memories and ideas pass in and out of his mouth with the breeze of the autumn air - first sweet and forgiving, then sour and merciless. Taking his eyes from the foliage on the horizon, he realizes the darkness is just setting in. The whiskey flask is empty now.

Attempting to savor the few remaining drops of liquor, he holds the flask high above his mouth and shakes his hand with vigor. As he does so, he fantasizes about how wonderful it would be to live inside the flask. He wishes he could lick its walls dry. But the reality of the very last drop quickly brings him back to consciousness.

The drop hangs at the edge of the spout for an eternity. His eyes find their focus as his tongue wags in anticipation. The last drop is so bitter-sweet, and fills him with such emotion, he feels like he's going to burst. It will burn his tongue and ignite a fire within him. It is hope, fear, and exhilaration rolled into one.

But this drop fights for its survival. He eyes it as it slides about the mouth of the flask - occasionally teasing it with his tongue. Strangely, the vigor of his shake begins to subside, and what was once focus is now trance.

With a gust of wind, colored leaves swirl about him. The frayed threads on his jacket sway gently in the breeze, as the autumn air rushes through its holes and paralyze his body. The whiskey drop inches closer to its destiny as the sweetness of autumn fills his mouth. This time he swallows it down.

An exhilaration, he has never known, consumes him. His stomach is filled with hope, and his heart overflows with love. From above himself, he watches the flask tumble down the mountainside. As the whiskey drop cowers back into the flask, he realizes that the sweetness will not be washed away today. Instead, it will swirl within his mouth and tickle his taste buds. Most people can smell autumn in the air, but not him. He can taste it.