It’s not unusual to see road signs riddled with bullet holes along the caramel, sandy road that wraps itself around the wildlife refuge. Using road signs for target practice on county back roads is a way of life around here. Just the way it is and always will be.
I was on my way back to the hospital from a patient’s house. A very sad, elderly man who lives in a mansion - furnished with rare and beautiful objects from Europe. He has a few bullet holes around his house. No, not target practice. He shot a guns off in his house in a misguided attempt to kill the emotional pain that stalks him, room to room, in a house that will never echo the laughter of the woman he loved.
I stopped by the side of the road at an information billboard that listed the rules of the refuge and such. It was shaded by its own wooden roof. After stopping my car, I walked over to examine the information board closer. Kicked a few spent red gun shot shells out of my path. I placed, photographed and documented #92 on a wooden beam that supported the roof. This art piece had its own refuge now out in the wild, wild west. A refuge where it can witness the pulse of life out here without any haunting memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment