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If we had pancakes too often, you
wouldn’t appreciate them so much.
Grandfather downs a short stack,
then he says to me, I have to run
an errand. Want a ride to school?
Unusual. He hardly ever
goes anywhere. But what
else can I say? “Uh, sure.”
THE FIFTEEN-MINUTE RIDE
Seems to take an hour. Unlike Aunt Cora,
Grandfather is definitely fishing the same
tide of anxiety I find myself trolling.
He is taut as a tug-of-war rope. Impossible
to slacken, despite the fact that lately he’s been
downing bourbon instead of beer, along
with bigger and bigger doses of meds. He falls
asleep in his chair every night around eight.
Even now, with coffee rather than booze
chasing his mood fixers, his voice is muddy
when he finally cracks the wall of silence.
Your father is getting out next week.
Just the way he says it—all quivery
and ice-cold—sends shivers through me.
“I thought it might be soon. I heard
you on the phone the other day.”
He says he wants to see you. How
do you feel about that? He turns
a corner and the school pops into
view. Trey wants to see me? What for?
And how do I feel about seeing
