The drive home is short, with windows down and voices high, full of love and good news as only HE would have intended. Breath heavy with the scent of overly sugared burnt coffee. Gossip and Gospel still ringing in our ears.
The clocks of Time ring out louder than drums of ears can stand. Daddy sings at the tip top of his lungs as the chop of the knife keeps time on each unsuspecting potato. Now onion. Salty sweet sizzling is the air, alive and full for all five senses. With the bacon from my pig, or was it Bubba’s?
As we are Welcomed to the Machine I carefully choose the least offensive old sock from beneath the kitchen sink. Stained from years of Sunday morning wood oil. Remove every item. The slush-slush sound of the bottle back and forth. Replace every item, better than before. Slick fingers for the rest of the day.
Ma is Comfortably Numb as she gathers and sorts the week’s wares. Up and down the stairs. The slam of the drum lid followed by the rushing flow of forced water. Cycle after cycle. Load followed by load.
Hey You, Bubba! Have you changed into your work clothes? There are acres to be mowed and cement to be mixed. The day is ripe. Thick with humidity. The shade of the moss eaten mesquite trees will protect you. Foreman on every branch, chirping their demands.
Daddy potatoes with a side of ‘who’s pig did we decide this was?’. Wooden table and chairs older than any living thing in the room. On the Turning Away plans are changed. Work boots and torn jeans replaced with swim trunks and ‘babysoups’. Skin squeaks with black inner tubes slung over shoulders and air filled tutus.
Walk Don’t Run (‘60 or ‘64, Daddy?), trading one long driveway for another. Butterfooted, step lightly down the steep path. Don’t get caught by the current. A-chucka-chucka-chucka-CHUCK *SPLASH* with limbs flying in all directions. Ma is tired from the various washing machines of the day.
The Cold Hearted Orb does change in an instant. Leaving these such memories to live on only in Your Wildest Dreams.
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