Bottled Loneliness



The Klean Kanteen you gave me doubles as a turkey caller. Anytime I am walking through the woods and take a swig of water, a throaty turkey sound emanates from my bottle and the turkeys flock. I suppose it is nice not walking alone in the forest. I feel like a de facto Pied Piper of turkeys.


I walked to the edge of the forest. It is a surprisingly cool day for walking in the midst of a heat wave. The clouds are low on the horizon, sitting on buttes like books on shelves. The rain had made the earth smell spicy, something to bottle up and put in pumpkin pie. I came across a field I hadn’t come across before. The sky waved in familiarity, but the field was new; a foreign entity to me. Dry gold swept for miles and miles to low tree’d hills. Every now and again a tree would be placed in the field, almost as if an afterthought to the construction of this empty space.  


Now I am back indoors. And the Klean Kanteen is moderately embarrassing. I drink and people stare. Some even start giggling behind hands, as if covering the act of sound stops sound. It doesn’t. But I am thirsty. I drink from the canteen with all the abandon of the outdoors. I imagine myself walking through that forest and again coming across that field; that feeling of newness and something untainted and unexplored and expaaaaanding. Horizons can be deceptively far away out there. One can feel alone and not at the same time with such horizons playing tricks of the eye like a slight of hand. I drink from my bottle and think of this field. It is a space for me. And when I drink from my bottle there, the turkeys come—unjudging. Why couldn’t you have given me a Klean Kanteen that made human beings flock to me, so that I might drink from it in my loneliness?



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