Monday, May 17, 2010

Off the Air

We walk out of my parent's house and there, idling in the driveway, waits a huge stretch limo. I mean huge. Cool, I think, I wasn't expecting this. We hop in the back seat. There are two other rows of seats between us and the driver. A couple other people join us in the seats ahead, and off we go! I press the button to raise the smoked glass partition between us and those in front. Alone at last.

I reach over and take her hand. The color fades to a grainy gray like an old television set after the late night news and the National Anthem. Static.

1 comment:

  1. John --

    My mother died when I was 6. About the time I became older than she ever got to be, I started to feel the loss of never getting to know her as an adult. I asked my father and others about her, but didn't get the kinds of answers that I'd hoped for, that really gave me much of a glimpse of what it would have been like to know her. To the degree that you can save these types of stories, very specific stories of both special days and ordinary days, I think that your sons will really value this when they get older.

    Scott on Trescott

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