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where the highway is a line penciled between trees. I am changing lanes to avoid it. It is the last day in the month of expansion, purple iris, peony fleshy and plump as Mae West. Today marks one year like pollen stain, that my father began his lousy check marks on a schedule of medications he cursed, then swallowed. That bird, inching its way across the right lane is becoming a sparrow. My father told me how he almost drowned three different times, how someone always saved him. I put Bruce Springsteen into the CD player Oh Thunder Road, Oh Thunder Road, and imagine myself dancing on that porch in a summer dress, barefoot. I would have left with Bruce if he would have asked me. Last year, on this day, I asked my father if I could call Hospice. Get him some relief. I’m looking at that god-forsaken bird. I hate it for not knowing it could die. Joy Gaines-Friedler |