The Storm

Chapter Ten

The Prayer

W e had just stepped into the old house, and Henry headed to the wood bin and stoked up a warm fire in the old, pot-bellied stove. It made a cheerful glow, and the crackling fire was like music. Heavy rain on the roof added to the symphony, and Henry headed to the kitchen. “Grub will be up in a few,” he said, and went about digging out pots and pans for the feast, and whatever grits were. “Grab some coffee, Son. It’ll be ready in two minutes.” It was the best that I have ever tasted. Either my taste buds had changed from my initial experience of Henry’s coffee, or it had somehow magically gotten better. Maybe I was just grateful to be alive and safe. Henry set about to cook, and soon the familiar smells of country cooking filled the house. I pulled off my boots and socks to relax and planned to review my photos after downing a few more gulps from my cup. The bare wood floors felt good on my feet, and I mused over the skin my toes that was wrinkled from being wet for hours, and the total scene that I found myself in. "Here I am," I thought, "old Zach from Brooklyn in the swamps." I was amused at how comfortable I had become. “I b elieve I got some good photos and footage, Henry," I said. “That’s what you came for, Son,” Henry responded, "and that’s quite a camera you got there, Zach. I got a Brownie camera and an old Polaroid that’s broke.” “Dinner smells good,

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