I used to hunt. In fact, for years I hunted a lot. Then one season, just like that, I quit going. I stayed at home in the shed, year round. It was dark and damp and I got pretty dusty. I began to think everyone had forgotten at me.
Out of the blue one day, some folks I didn’t know came and cleared out the shed. They left me and the others on the ground in the yard for the better part of a week. Early one morning the fellow who was in charge showed back up with a most industrious little man who took all of us to his shop. He took my weights off and got all the dust off me. He even replaced my missing neck filler. I should mention that he was quite good with touchup paint as well.
It was hard to keep track of time, but at some point I was put in a box and jostled about for a bit. I hadn’t been in a box since I left the factory in Detroit. When the box was finally opened I found myself in the presence of a very kind and studious man. When he picked me up he would hold me very gently with both hands. He would turn me every which way inspecting all my bumps and bruises. The sight of me seemed to mesmerize him. I imagined he was thinking about all the hunts I had been on. He seemed to derive great pleasure from my presence. After a while however, he put me on a shelf with a number of others that looked familiar even though they weren’t. Some of them were quite dusty. I started to take on a little dust too.
I know I shouldn’t complain, as I am well taken care of, but I do miss my friends and the good old days when we were right in the middle of it. We were really something. I wonder where they all are now. I hope they’re OK.