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Live: From the Grave
A dream of an opinion.
“I’m not coming back,” I told my mom and dad. My knees rolled and ground over the linoleum floor. I struggled to breathe. I couldn’t see through it. I shuffled through the blue bag: “don’t need that, don’t need this. Yes! Keep this,” I whispered fast.
“Peter. Here’s two-hundred dollars. Take this in case,” my mom paused as our eyes locked. My hand on the bills.
“I won’t need that, just keep it.” I spoke. “I’m not going to need that where I’m going.”
Mom paced the kitchen in her purple bathrobe. Dad finished breakfast by the bay window, seated at the table he’d built when we moved in this house in 1975. Black socks fell just a little over his mid-shin. His old white tennis shoes stained green from cutting grass behind a push mower. Mom’s just wringing her hands, taking her rings on and off, across the kitchen in sections — lights her cigarette, a sip of coffee.
“But, Peter,” she starts again, “what I just don’t understand is,” and I struggle to find that myself. What understanding can I offer? She’s not mad, she just wants to know what she’s got to take before God.
I open my mouth. “I just,” wait. My mouth is desert. I can’t hear my words. I push harder, reach for water. I turn up the clear bottle. Cold water runs against my face, down both…
