Coal Shed

It probably was never painted. A rough, vertical plank structure, five feet square and eight feet high, including the foot of clearance it had from the ground, it probably was golden at one time but now was weathered to the shade that, had you been driving by would have appeared to be gray. Standing next to it, though, you could see that each plank was rich walnut brown highlighted with deep shadowed grooves between every swollen fiber of its grain. The upper ridges of those fibers were lit by the afternoon sun but still provided enough contrast to show off the motes of dust stirred into the sunlight by her approach. The afternoon warmth radiated from its surface to her outstretched palm. It had the kind of texture you could not refuse to touch but, if you dared brush your hand across it, it would lift large fat slivers away in the grooves of your own skin. It was so softened with age it would dent with the pressure of a fingernail. The open spaces between the planks and next to the floorboards were coated with coal dust. Coal grit and coal fragments lay around the foundation like a sort of mulch for weeds. It was a great place to stop in the middle of a meandering walk.