Marty showered and put on winter clothes that he pulled from a pile on the chair, with an Irish sweater and hiking shoes. He stood looking into a framed photo on the wall above the desk. In black and white, it showed a receding row of winter-trimmed grape stalks, dressed in looped strands of ice so fine and delicate, and the sun rising behind the camera, that they were covered in glowing spider webs. He was surrounded by such scenes in every direction for a hundred miles; ice and melting ice, fog and mist and livestock standing steaming, all struck by a sun risen as cold and indifferent to these glorious effects as it was to him, standing there smelling the dust warming on the heater’s dusty grill.
He opened the drapes in the living room and looked out at nothing but gray and wet. His single-wide sat on the extreme northern end of the farm, the end farthest from town. Its back was to sixty two acres of almond trees, its face to an unnamed road, across which were 40 acres of Mr. Turbson’s wine grapes. In clear weather, the window had a big, beautiful view of the Sierras.
Through the rain and fog he could just make out the leading edge of the grapes. It was soggy, drizzly, and cold. Peaceful.
Marty took his watch and wallet from the dresser, where he kept them beside a snow globe of the Statehouse, complete with little flags and trees. When there was light to spare, its crystal body broke it into scattered bolts that shot across the room. Bo sent that home to Marty for his 25th birthday six years earlier, when Bo was away at college, and Marty cherished it.
The watch was Dad’s, a Smith’s W10 military watch from England, with a canvas band. He wore it in Korea. When Marty graduated from high school, Dad threw a barbeque party in his back yard, and he gave him that watch in front of his friends. He was proud of his son. Sometimes Marty thought Dad should have held onto it for Bo. he picked it up, and felt his throat go tight and tears come to his eyes. He wanted so badly to break out in sobs, but he was floating in sadness too deep for tears, and the mountains were obscured by clouds.
from a novel in process by Kyle Kimberlin, 2004
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Metaphor 