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I hadn’t even realized I’d been gotten, until eight feet from the back of the van, oomphing  a cart across crumbling concrete, I saw them.

Plain as day.

Threaded on the window wiper on the back of the van.

My nephew’s blue briefs.

At which time I cried.

Mortified tears.

Twenty minutes earlier the a man who’d steadied his black car beside me on Hwy 512—neither passing nor pulling away—but motioning….motioning  with his both hands like he was a cat clawing the air, had only wanted to help.

I see that now.

And when he kept flapping his arm like it might fall off and mouthing words I couldn’t hear, while I eyeballed him in my peripheral, well…I see that he was, um…still trying to help.

I see a lot of things.

And unfortunately in my mind, I see my husband laughing his socks off.

 

Heh.  For now.

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