shifted gears, faced my fears, shed some tears, did a lot of heroin
As kids we rode in the floorboard of daddy's truck. Burning up 49&61 back and forth between homes in our two-toned chariot. There he introduced us to AC/DC. And Cher. We'd stop every time we passed through Helena. For BBQ sandwiches--no slaw--and RC. On return trips, he'd say we reeked of Winstons. Then he doused us with a nicer Marlboro fragrance. You and I never noticed.
Hints of Dial soap clung to our nostrils. We slept behind the couch because it was exciting. Waking to the smell of granny-biscuits. Outta the shower and into clothes straight off the line. A fly swatter in each hand until a summer storm turned the sky olive. Only in Arkansas. Only in Monette. Pa'paw always said we brought the rain. We heard the parking lot sizzle through the screen door. Blackwater run-off converged by the mailboxes. Showers did nothing to curb grocery store feet. And we couldn't be bothered to put on shoes when the gaming bug bit. Or to watch out for blue-haired drivers easing in and out of our racketless tennis court.
They let granny stay in the house for a while after pa'paw died. A month for every hour I stood wordless--motionless by his casket. You were there when he left. Stayed at the hospital with mama and aunt ginny and uncle dale and aunt trishie and granny. Daddy had to go home for a day to work and I went with him. So while machines breathed and ate and pottied for him, you watched the life march out of him. I always envied you for that. I always felt guilty for the ride home. For not seeing him off. So I punished myself for it. Burned the sight of him lying there in a suit he never would've worn if there was air in his lungs. Glasses in hand. His last half-chewed pouch of Redman in the breast pocket. I couldn't have been much more than ten years old. I still remember hearing virginia telling mama I was being creepy. But I bought granny six months at home before they muscled her into a smaller place next door.
One last summer of smoking before 'Inferzimas' became her new brand. One last summer of driving before backing into the mailman cost her license. One last summer of Kaboom cereal and a glass of Pepsi every afternoon. You were old enough to work by then, so you missed out. And when daddy came to pick me up that last time, he had a new truck. With a backseat. But I rode up front. He told me I was too big to do those kid things anymore. Hotboxing the cab made me nauseous. Wasn't used to the smoke anymore. I pulled the collar over my nose to breathe fresh until he puffed it away. Helena became one of those blink-and-you-miss-it towns. We were in too big a hurry to stop.
Hints of Dial soap clung to our nostrils. We slept behind the couch because it was exciting. Waking to the smell of granny-biscuits. Outta the shower and into clothes straight off the line. A fly swatter in each hand until a summer storm turned the sky olive. Only in Arkansas. Only in Monette. Pa'paw always said we brought the rain. We heard the parking lot sizzle through the screen door. Blackwater run-off converged by the mailboxes. Showers did nothing to curb grocery store feet. And we couldn't be bothered to put on shoes when the gaming bug bit. Or to watch out for blue-haired drivers easing in and out of our racketless tennis court.
They let granny stay in the house for a while after pa'paw died. A month for every hour I stood wordless--motionless by his casket. You were there when he left. Stayed at the hospital with mama and aunt ginny and uncle dale and aunt trishie and granny. Daddy had to go home for a day to work and I went with him. So while machines breathed and ate and pottied for him, you watched the life march out of him. I always envied you for that. I always felt guilty for the ride home. For not seeing him off. So I punished myself for it. Burned the sight of him lying there in a suit he never would've worn if there was air in his lungs. Glasses in hand. His last half-chewed pouch of Redman in the breast pocket. I couldn't have been much more than ten years old. I still remember hearing virginia telling mama I was being creepy. But I bought granny six months at home before they muscled her into a smaller place next door.
One last summer of smoking before 'Inferzimas' became her new brand. One last summer of driving before backing into the mailman cost her license. One last summer of Kaboom cereal and a glass of Pepsi every afternoon. You were old enough to work by then, so you missed out. And when daddy came to pick me up that last time, he had a new truck. With a backseat. But I rode up front. He told me I was too big to do those kid things anymore. Hotboxing the cab made me nauseous. Wasn't used to the smoke anymore. I pulled the collar over my nose to breathe fresh until he puffed it away. Helena became one of those blink-and-you-miss-it towns. We were in too big a hurry to stop.