RIDING IN THE BACK OF A PICKUP TRUCK
Saturdays, me and Jim—little brother seven years dead today, heart stopped dead—rode
rattling on the metal bed in the back of the pick-up, backs to the cab and Dad, who drove
like a madman, from suburb to Green Acres—Florida flat-land with a garden patch,
ten cows, two untamed ponies, and a Brahma bull, a spring and a rusty pump behind the shack.
Huddled shoulder to Jim’s shoulder, hurtling along highway in early morning black, then a maze
of dirt roads, I sucked in that queer feeling of falling ahead backward, looking back,
watching the world rush away. On this aniversary of death, Hurricane Isadore—gift of a mythic
goddess who wore the horns of a cow—drove east through morning, out to sea, a scent
of Florida in the last streaks of rain, even on Black Mountain, land-locked and far north, Fall
sucked in again like a warm breath—the way a father can hold his heart—and all
was silent but that sucking of wind, as if past the cab of a pickup truck. I leaned back on granite
face, facing east, remembering Jim, a queer memorial. Storm clouds rushed
away down the valley, and it was as if I rode the mountain’s hard bed, hurtling ahead
backward, holding on against the fall. Tonight I am awake late, and he is still dead,
and I am watching the sky alone. The others, driven in by the cold and black, lower their
tones. Owls hoof-hoof; cows in the distance moan. I hear them inside, wondering at this queer
daughter’s queer father’s queer cold-shouldering, his other child—Jim, still shoulder to shoulder
with me, our backs against the cab where Dad drives—seven years dead today. How can a father
stop his heart? In this silence, the meteor showers celestial dust and debris, light streaks
from the heart of Leo. I am still growing old. My back aches against the cold and hard, hurtling
on this world ahead. I huddle into my overcoat and hold on, widening my eyes to look back,
watching the stars rush away. I suck in, falling ahead looking back and up
into the night sky. I won’t fall into the black.
Children never fall from the pickup truck.