dmseay

Confederate flag waves in the North. Fat man on a riding mower cuts grass. He leaves long dead blades behind. Soon, they’ll yellow and turn to straw.

He wears a red MAGA hat with white sweat marks on it. His tee-shirt rides over his hairy belly. It states, FREEDOM FIRST. Dark clouds roll in.

A banner on his fence says, Jesus Is My Lord…Trump Is My President. Pickups drive by and honk. Wave as they pass.

The fat man drinks a beer on his front porch and looks over his work. He’s proud of his accomplishment. Soon it will rain.

Yard sales. Throughout the neighborhood, people selling old memories. Books never read, old copper pots from grandma, a bicycle missing a seat. Everything must go.

An old lady sits in the garage with the door up. She yells out, Everything on that table is five dollars. A deck of cards with pinups on them. A rosary made out of wood. Couple of leather bound Bibles. Patsy Cline and Charley Pride records. Husbands and wives look cautiously through the goods.

Cars go by slowly. A suburban drive on a Saturday afternoon. From one end to the other, yards covered in folding tables and cardboard signs. Cigar boxes holding cash. It’s all somebody else’s junk, a man says under his breath. Empty picture frames which once housed loved ones. A vase with plastic flowers in it.

How much would you sell a memory for?

He went looking for her past midnight down dark roads; stretches of highways. No lights, just signs that glowed in the dark. Signs saying, Gary 58 miles and Valparaiso, 37. He looked east and west, north and south. There was no sign of her. She had slipped away from him. Left out the back door. No note or letter. The coffee pot was still warm.

She was never happy. She married out of need. A young woman with ginger hair and emerald eyes. She used to seduce truck drivers out where Highway 10 meets 65. Pouring coffee and taking orders all night long. Going home with strangers. The old man was one of them. He fell in love. She quit her job and drove around the country with him. Making love in the back of a semi. He never had it so good.

Wasn’t too long before their newborn arrived. Red hair like her mom’s. Tiny fingers that used to pull on the old man’s beard. He laughed. But, something told him she wouldn’t be around too long. He knew she was unhappy. Being left at home to tend to a child while he saw mountains and rivers, big cities, and the Great Lakes. She was jealous. Mad with jealousy. And, there was nothing he could do about it. It was just a matter of time.

Driving down those highways with the baby strapped into the passenger seat, checking truck stops along the way, he never found her. She was gone for good. She wanted to see America.

Mounds of dirt piled high. Holes in the earth. Stacks of aluminum siding stretched as far as the eye can see. Roofing shingles scattered. Cement trucks making their way down a dirt road. Addresses marked on curbs.

Amish men dropped off at the job site. Vans pull up and doors open. Beards and hats. Beards and hats. The pounding of nails at daybreak. Saws ripping boards in two. Bricks stacked one on top of the other. Trees cleared. Suburbia will be here soon. The future is in our hands.

Lakewood will be the name; no lake, but a pond in the middle with signs that say, No Swimming. Kids will sneak out at midnight for a naked dip.

Farmland sold. Generations of those who worshipped the sun and prayed for rain are now gone; moved to Florida or Tennessee to live in double wides. A history left behind. Their kids didn’t want it. Nor did the grandkids. So much for soil being in blood.

Now is the time for progress, they say. We’ll eat meat made from plants. Drink milk from nuts. Artificial Intelligence will write books. Don’t worry. We can always make more. What will it cost, man? What will it cost?

Christmas lights were still up. They shined in the nighttime, making the trailer home glow in green and red. People drove by on the highway just to see the colors in mid-May. Some laughed. Others cursed at the old man’s laziness.

He sat inside most of the time. Drinking cans of Old Style and eating bologna sandwiches. Sometimes, the old man would just eat it right out of the package. He’d sit there in front of the television, eating cold bologna and downing it with beer. Watching The Price Is Right, or Wheel Of Fortune. Never watched the news. Said it depressed him.

The plants needed water. They hadn’t been touched since his wife passed away back at Thanksgiving. It was her idea to put the Christmas lights on the trailer. She wanted to see them one more time.

Sometimes, he feels her presence in the front room; hears her voice. She told him never to take those lights down. Said she didn’t care what people thought or talked about. He nodded his head and plugged them in every night.

Her ashes sat on the mantle. Sometimes, he’d touch the white vase with her initials on it and talk to it when he heard her voice. Garbage can overflowed, dishes piled up in the sink. He told her we’re getting there, dear. One day at a time. We’re getting there, he said. He’d smile and go back to watching TV. Thinking that one day, he’d see her again.

Where’s my bottle of wine? he asked. The red. I think it’s a Cabernet. Or, maybe a Pinot Noir. Bottle that says Mark West on it, the old man fumbled around in the kitchen. Where the hell could it be? Did you drink it? he asked his wife. I said, did you drink it? the old lady started singing to herself. Humming the song One Day At A Time Sweet Jesus. Hey, he said. I’m asking a question here. Did you drink my wine? the humming got louder. I know when you’re guilty of something. You can’t keep a secret, he lit a cigarette. Just tell me the truth. Did you drink my wine?

No. I did not. I don’t drink wine. Or anything else for that matter.

Listen to you. Ms. pretty britches. Never got stained. Who do you think you’re talking to? You think I’m some kind of stranger? Think I don’t know you? Forty-five years. I know you. You sneak sips. You take gulps when Im not looking. Red, white, whiskey, it don’t matter. You steal from me.

I do not. ‘Sides. We’re married. How could it be stealing?

So you do drink from my stash.

I’m saying if I did. Which I don’t. I go to those meetings for Christ’s sake.

Why?

They give me peace of mind.

Wine gives you peace of mind, he started looking under wooden cabinets.

I like the way the folks make me feel. We’re all just one big group with the same problem.

What would that problem be?

You.

The old man laughed. He went looking in the bathroom where he found a bottle of Wild Turkey behind the toilet. There was a little bit left. Maybe a shot. He downed it and hid the empty bottle back behind the toilet again. He’d throw it away in the middle of the night when she was asleep. He smiled. Looked in his billfold. There was a ten and a five in there. Just enough, he said. Just enough.

Where you going? she asked.

To find peace.

The trees are green. Leaves have come alive. Taking in April’s rains and blossoming. Winds stir the branches a bit. Birds sing a spring song. And he sits in front of a window, smoking, watching, as seasons change.

He’s seen the seasons change before; spring to summer, summer to autumn, autumn to winter. It still mystifies him. One morning, the trees are bare, and the next, growth is seen. Colors come into play. He wonders how that happened.

The same is true for fall. Leaves turning gold and red, rust and brown, dying much like he is. Each day, getting closer to the grave.

The old man will be buried among peasants. Thrown in a hole in the ground. A pine box holding bones. Hoping for the soul to wind up in heaven. Conversations with Christ, Paul, and Coltrane. Sweet sounds. Joyful words. A million souls collected. And a light shines on forever, never ending in dark. He is home.

But, for now, he looks out his window. And tulips bloom. The orchid stands alone. Just as he does. Wondering what the new season will bring?

Lilacs are dying. Brilliant purple fades. The smell is gone. Sun shines through windows and captures gray water inside a vase. Vines and leaves turning brown. She wished they would last forever.

Why we got so much running around to do today? he asked as he drove through town. Every Saturday. Same thing. Go here, go there. Grocery store. Mall, he said while the kids yelled in the back of the truck. Sally. John. You kids get quiet, or I’m going to give you all something to yell about, his wife kept looking out the window; looking at the diner, tavern, hardware store, gast station, post office, she just kept looking. Watching as people came and went.

How about hamburgers and hot dogs tonight on the grill, he suggested. We’ll get some of that cheddar to put on em. Sound good? She turned to him and nodded her head. The light turned yellow, then red. How many people we gotta feed tonight? he asked. She stuck both hands up in the air with all ten fingers extended. The wedding ring was off. He didn’t notice. He didn’t notice that she put on lipstick that morning. Or complement her on her long blonde hair, all straightened out.

You’re awfully quiet. Just taking it all in, I guess. Let’s go to the mall first and get that over with, he said. What do you have to get there? She remained quiet. I see, he told her. I see what kind of a day it’s gonna be.

He turned on the radio. Jolene was playing. Kids kept yelling. She looked out the window.

Sun shined through the window onto purple lilacs. A whole bunch of them in a vase. Purple with green leaves hanging on sticks. Smelled of spring.

She looked at them and then looked out her window at the trash in the yard. Cheetos wrappers, empty Marlboro boxes, crushed Coke cans, broken beer bottles, all laying amongst the dandelions and tall weeds. One of these days, the landlord would come by to mow, maybe clean up the garbage. But, nobody else on the block cared; why should she?

The old woman closed her blinds. Took another smell of the season and went to bed where she dreamt of wild flowers in an Italian meadow, cottages with windows open, mountains, and hills green with splashes of yellow, blue, violet, and crimson.

The dream brought her to a path where she picked mushrooms under tall wet trees. The ground was rich and dark. One by one, she placed them in her basket. She sang songs and was happy.

Later that morning, she awoke to the sound of lawnmowers and men speaking Spanish. Her wrinkled hands opened the blinds where she saw a trimmed lawn and trash being taken away in garbage bags. She smiled. Left the blinds open. And, smelled the lilacs one more time. Magic had taken place.