Sestina

This is a very short story I wrote over the weekend of November 25th, 2007 - first Hudson River Valley Naturalist Society's Writer's Retreat.

The boy noticed something in the trees, something clogging them up like a stuck cloud. His father was in the front of the house making coffee over the wood stove. It was a small three-room cabin, and only the window above the tub overlooked the woods, and that’s where the boy was, standing over the tub, when he noticed something in the trees.

The father didn’t see it until noon. The boy came back from the bathroom and sat at the table, saying nothing. They ate breakfast in silence, eggs on hard bread, and the father cracked a raw egg into his coffee – what he called “Boston style.” They chewed their food, not speaking. After breakfast the father took his newspaper to the chair in the corner and sat, reading, sipping his cold coffee. The boy sat at the table with his book. Soon the fire got low and the father went around back for wood. So the father didn’t see it until noon.

It was some kind of weather balloon, he guessed. It was large and white, the fabric taut in places, making a shuddering noise as the wind blew through it. It was pierced in several places by branches. It had come down in the storm, he thought, and become snagged in the tree. As he was looking at it, the snow seeping into his shoes, the boy came out back to say something. His father pointed to the thing in the trees. It must have come down in the storm. It was some kind of weather balloon, he guessed.

Maybe it was from the military. This was the boy’s thought. He was eighteen and wanted to fly jets. The father shook his head. That color, it would stand out in the blue sky. That was the point, the boy said. For target practice. The father thought it over. They both shivered. Maybe it was from the military.

The boy helped his father bring the wood in the house.

SInside it was warm. Suppose it was someone’s air balloon, the boy said. What if someone crashed and is out there, right now, half-dead in the cold. The father sat down and thought about this. It could be, but there was no basket. There would have been a basket in the tree as well. The boy agreed. Maybe it was just an old tent, someone’s camping tent that got tossed up by the storm. They decided to take another look at it. You can see it from the bathroom, the boy said. That way they could stay inside. Inside it was warm.

They stood together in the small space. It definitely is some kind of balloon, the father said. Yes, definitely, the boy said. An enormous balloon. Wait the boy said, putting his hand on his father’ s shoulder. Wait. The Macy’s Day Parade. Two days ago it was Thanksgiving (they always came to the cabin the last weekend in November). It must be a balloon that got loose. It’s Snoopy, he said. I heard they used to release them all the time, and people would find them and mail them back. Huh, his father said. I think you’re right. Imagine, it floated all the way up here. That’s incredible.

They were quiet for a moment, but it was a different sort of silence than at breakfast. They stood together in the small space.