A Cellarful of Nose - Future Shoes

miles. An invigorating thing to do in the high thin air.
We inspected the set of old buildings next to where we slept,
tried to find clues to the commune's decline. I couldn't find much.
I found some summer scat – antelope, was my guess. And
cowpies that I calculated to be years old. There were no cattle
around any more.
A cache of unbroken bottles lying in the sand told me I was at
the right place. Most people in the area did not recycle glass. The
commune was religious about it, long before recycling became
common.
One shed had had a fire, and a bedspring and mattress lay in
ashes inside.
Here was a mystery – tin can lids, nailed side by side onto a
lintel or roof beam … to reflect sunlight to help visitors find
house in their headlights? Was it a score card? A prayer? I would
ask on Saturday.
I thought I saw a cursive scrawl on the old wood by the door,
but when I got closer, was just "worm writing" – intricate patterns
of some larva burrowing through the mean of the wood … still, it
seemed to have personality, a voice calling out to the loneliness, a
message of survival from one who is no more.
Saturday came, and my fears of resentment were not realized.
No one mentioned my story from 23 years earlier. It was
wonderful to see Donna and Jo and Julia again. We picked up
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