Rain dropping bursts into circles across the surface of the lake; a quiet conversation disappearing into the overlap of barely waves. Heels in the mud again, crouch-squatting elbows-on-knees hands-clasped, not-praying. Its just cold. Thats all. One of the circles spreads into rings of yesterdays: Six-months before my mother was flown by ambulance-helicopter-plane to a hospital in Los Angeles for an new-emergency-liver, I passed my driving test. It was a license to shuttle my sister to school, volleyball practice, Safeway, Blockbuster Video. Jane was fourteen years old and I had recently met her again in a Dennys near the Modesto hospital. Dad, grandma and grandpa had sent us off to eat something. We sat together in a big red booth, ordered eggs and toast; sudden comrades after years of orbiting indifference and bunkering solitude, uncertain of why we suddenly loved each other so much. Jane and I were alone together for the next three months except for the days dad would freeway miles home to hand us twenties-for-food, sleeping for a few hours before freewaying away. We didnt break any rules. We didnt burn the house down. In November the phone rang. Theyre releasing her, he said and hung up. Moms body walked through the front door with big-stitches and a strangers-eyes. Dad walked in, threw his keys in the brass bowl, sat down on sagging couch and turned on the Kings game. Jane was down the hall in her room; her house within a house. A few nights later I held dad on the couch as he cried-wailed Scotch-drunk, I just want my wife back to make me dinner! He was a boy his whole life and holding him was like cradling a baby-linebacker, my fingers far from tips touching. Mom sat on the love seat by herself, a new healing, unsure thing. We didnt hug her because we didnt want to break her. I dont know why I cry. The rain smells clean and everyone is still alive.
Posted on: Sun, 13 Oct 2013 14:55:47 +0000
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