Hopper

It’s a Thursday night and I’m parked on the street outside of my grandparents’ old house. When I close my eyes I can see my grandpa’s powder blue Dodge Spirit in the driveway. I can see my sweet grandma hurrying to the door to act surprised to see me, her fat arm stuffed into that doctor ordered compression sleeve. I can see the basement where the Bears played on Sundays, just below the stuffed trout and walleye, each with their own story. The trout was intentional, the walleye wasn’t. If I look closer I can see that Christmas Eve snow that fell while we were having dinner and opening presents. My brothers with theirs and me with mine: a remote control car that had a wire between the car and the controller. I can see my dad shoveling that narrow driveway, the sound of his shovel fading in and out as he worked back and forth down the length of the driveway. He sits in his chair most of the day now, but not back then. I see my dad’s red station wagon and feel the bumps of highway 12 as I drifted in and out of sleep in that rear facing back seat. But that was all then and tonight I’m just killing time at the intersection of White Oak and Vail while I wait for my daughter’s plane to land so we can drive home to say goodbye our favorite dog that’s lying under the coffee table dying. Hopper 6/2/14 – 3/5/25