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Such A Nice Night


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Jack Campbell

The cacophonous chorus of croaking joined by treble chirps was the music each summer at the cabin out in the middle of the swamp. Old Jack rocked back, his cedar chair creaking the old boards underneath. His eyes were settled on nothing in particular, seeing right past the lightshow the fireflies put on and thinking on days past.


To his left was his papa’s shotgun to keep away the gators, left to him so long ago. Beside his chair, lying against the water-logged wall on his right was the old banjo that had sung for his family. His home, the home of his family for generations back, was empty now but for Old Jack sitting out on his porch.


It used to be crowded there; Brothers, aunts, cousins, family roamed the house and skimmed the airboats over the swamp. Jacqueline and his mama would cook in the kitchen, a meal to feed the whole lot of them. They had all been gone so long, taken to meet death.


“We’ll have this house fulled agin, Jackie”, he promised aloud, “I ain’t gon’ let the good blood die out.”


Jack stretched his arm out behind him, feeling for the banjo and feeling the ache in his aged bones. He pulled it up by the neck, plucked at the strings, and added to the sounds about him, sending the promise to his wife.

July 12, 2018 12:56 am
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