What follows is a new short story. Would love to hear your comments.
Not Ready
It was a dark, overcast afternoon in mid-July when I pulled into the small parking lot.
Much like my mood, the sky had been sulking all morning. Heavy gray clouds hung low overhead, threatening rain for hours before finally giving in with scattered showers and distant rolls of thunder.
Another burst had just passed as I shifted into park and killed the engine.
For a moment, I sat there in silence, watching the last thin streams of water slide down the windshield. Tiny rivulets merged together, slipping past the resting wiper blades.
I watched them disappear into the growing puddles below and wondered what it might be like to simply let go.
I glanced up at the sign mounted on the building’s façade.
Yes. This was the place.
The structure sat on the far side of town, an anonymous block of concrete that looked like it might once have been a small warehouse. Most people would drive right past it without giving it a second thought. But I knew what it was.
Or more accurately, I knew what waited inside.
That knowledge settled over me like a weight.
I had already promised myself I wasn’t buying anything today. I was only here to browse. Maybe ask a few questions. Maybe take a brochure home and leave it unopened on the kitchen counter for six months.
The truth is, I could have learned everything online in less than ten minutes, but that wasn’t the point. I needed to stand here. I needed to see it for myself.
Mostly, I needed proof that I could.
A large man stood outside the entrance smoking a cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, with weathered features and salt-and-pepper hair. A bright yellow construction vest hung loosely from his shoulders.
The rain didn’t seem to bother him.
He drew deeply from the cigarette and exhaled toward the sky, the smoke joining the dark clouds above.
Those things will kill you, I thought.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
A few moments later, a delivery driver approached carrying a long cardboard box. He handled it carefully, as though dropping it wasn’t an option.
The older man dropped his cigarette, crushed it beneath his boot, and held the door open for him.
The driver smiled.
The older man smiled back.
Then both disappeared inside.
Through the glass, I caught a glimpse of wooden stocks hanging on a wall before the door swung shut again.
I sat there for several minutes after that, replaying the simple exchange.
It felt like I was stalling. Maybe I was.
My thoughts drifted to the cemetery a few blocks away.
My grandfather is buried there. It struck me that nearly forty years had passed since they lowered him into the ground.
I remembered the old .22 rifle he kept locked in the hall closet. He’d taught me how to handle it when I was twelve.
“Always respect what it can do,” he’d told me.
Back then, I thought he was talking about the rifle.
“Where does the time go?” I whispered aloud.
Rain tapped softly against the roof.
I thought about my grandfather resting nearby in a place where pain no longer touched him. A place where he could no longer speak, yet somehow always seemed capable of listening.
I remembered something I’d read years ago in high school—a story, maybe a poem. I couldn’t recall the details. Only the image of a smile slowly leaving someone’s eyes.
The memory brushed against me like a cold hand. My heart skipped.
Outside, the rain began falling harder.
I looked up at the sign again through the distorted curtain of water.
The answer came immediately. Not today.
My hand moved almost on its own, turning the key in the ignition. Smooth jazz filled the cabin.
The windshield wipers sprang to life, sweeping away the rain with steady determination. They were doing exactly what they had been designed to do.
Me? I wasn’t so sure.
I shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot.
I didn’t look back. Instead, I took the long way home, following the road that passed the cemetery.
I didn’t stop. I simply glanced toward the section where my grandfather’s headstone stood.
The weather wasn’t right for a visit, but that didn’t matter. This wasn’t about saying hello. It was about hearing one last piece of advice.
And somehow, from a place beyond words, I felt like he understood.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and continued driving.
I’d make a few phone calls once I got home.
I’m not ready.
(c) 2026 James Wood
go.Jimmy.go 