In from the Cold

As Luther crunched up the road, the blizzard did its best to push him back home. But it wasn’t home anymore. It was just a place he’d lived for a long time, that’s all. He’d find somewhere else, and that’d be home. Somewhere he’d never want to leave.

He didn’t mind the cold and wind and snow blowing in his face. You couldn’t live in these parts long if that stuff bothered you. He did wish he had better gloves, though. Cold hands are a problem. You do a lot with your hands, y’know? He didn’t like walking with them shoved deep in his coat pockets, you never knew when you might trip or when you might want your hands ready. But cold; boy was it cold.

He hoped the padded canvas case on his back was some protection for his old guitar. It was more connection to his past than anything else he’d ever owned, so when he’d lost everything but that old Martin, it was okay. Long as he had Maggie, because sure you can name a guitar, of course you can, as long as he had Maggie, he’d make it. Play for nickels or for supper, or even find a band. As long as that canvas case was doing its job.

Luther worried, though. Because boy, was it ever cold.

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