by Kary Wright

Created on: April 25, 2008   Last Updated: July 16, 2008

He closed the front door firmly, shaking the frosty doorknob for the last time, the keys securely locked inside. He shouldered the duffle bag and rod holder that contained most of what was left of his worldly possessions and started down the road on foot, every breath a visible reminder that the cold Canadian winter was near. Gary stopped and turned around, gazing into the front window of the vaulted ceiling living room now empty, recalling Christmases past with the children. They had spent twenty years in this house as a family, now the kids were grown and creating memories with their own families. He pulled up his collar to keep his neck warm, and sauntered through town, taking in all the familiar sights from as far back as he could remember.

There was the old brick school, newly modernized and expanded to accommodate one hundred and fifty students, in which he had his class photo taken a dozen times. He recalled basketball championships won there. There was the time that he scored a home run in phys-ed class in grade four, securing a fleeting toehold amongst the "Jocks". He walked down a sidewalk with a set of stairs that served as a staging area for "Knievel's Next Jump", some thirty years ago. He walked past the old lumber yard, long since closed down, and recalled his first job stacking lumber.

Gary walked downtown on a sidewalk lined with tall maples on one side and houses full of mature trees on the other, recalling countless cat-and-mouse games on bicycle played out here, and Friday evening saunters with a pack of teenage friends on their way to the now closed down theatre. As he neared the main street there was the brick Post Office on the corner, flying the flag proudly, and a little farther the Bank, not yet open. As he neared the bank, he reached into his Stormrider jean jacket and pulled out the envelope, already labeled with account information that would represent the culmination of twenty five year's labor as a mechanic, paid toward a mortgage. He pulled the door open on the stainless steel night deposit box, paused for a moment pondering his sanity and turning the envelope over, slowly studying it. Then he took a deep breath and with a heavy sigh placed the envelope in the slot. It was done, he could move on.

He continued on down main street, past the grocery store where he had once delivered freight for a local trucking company, down past the sport shop where he had purchased so many .22 and rifle bullets. He slowed as he passed the garage he

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