"This snow storm is like Minnesota." He told his mother as he walked silently down the street, as if she was by his side; she had died some years back. "Look at those beautiful lights, Shannon," his mother would say, "someday you'll be rich and famous, you mark my words," and her voice was like a symphony orchestra.
Shannon had cared for his mother the last several years of her life, she lived with him and his wife. She'd be wrapped in a jacket in a chair in the dinning room, bobbing back and forth on those thin like, tin wobbly legs, fall to sleep: he often wondered how she ever kept her balance, didn't fall off that lean legged chair, and break her hip or neck or leg, God-forbid: for sure her guardian angel was nearby; he finally bought her a sofa chair, and that was it, she almost lived in it. She had made a great impression on him.
Shannon came to a stop light, it flashed green, he waited, it flashed red, he waited, it flashed yellow, he moved across the street, yellow reminded him of the cornfields of Minnesota, and he started laughing.
"Walk on the green not the yellow!" yelled a police man at Shannon.
For sure, there was money to be made in Erie, if you looked in the right places. He, Shannon, now understood the ways of the world a little more, in his own mind he was certain he could live in this city and do well.
He looked in an animal store window, saw a large cage, one for a rabbit, or small dog, he stopped and stared at it, "Ah, what a beautiful home for you Mr. Rat, I'm sure you'd like it," Shannon said victoriously looking down at the rat as it peeked its head out of his pocket, talking to the rat as if it understood. The rat quivered, happily now. The snow storm was starting to pick up, drifting across the streets, the wind picking it up and throwing the light flakes of snow into his face. Shannon's ears were getting numb, his feet had been numb for a while now, far-off he could hear the thumping of a train on its tracks.
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