Vodka was his flavor this week. It was cheap and efficient and as he sat this summer evening, wan with humidity, drinking it, he watched the murals unfolding in the radio static that gathered above the river every night.
He knew you couldn’t see radio static the way you saw the trees and the bridge, or heard the cars above, but he knew too it was real. It was like the manidoog, the spirits everyone used to know, but only rarely ever saw outside of dreams. Radio waves agitated the air and when he looked up at that static there in the twilit sky, he could see what everyone else overlooked. He saw his life.
Tonight he saw those days at the sugar bush, tending the fires, boiling the maple sap into syrup and then sugar, drilling the trees with Uncle and setting the taps. Draining winter from the trees. Time ran kind of backwards in the static, as if it were wound differently there. He watched the old man in the sky and marveled yet again at the ease with which he did those hard tasks.