We drink Dr. Thunder on ice with my father’s
cousin Joyce
in the beige living room of Barb’s new-to-her double wide.
Joyce and my father take turns remembering each other’s
youth;
she recalls the crush she had on him sixty years ago.
He is embarrassed and perhaps a little flattered.
There is talk of Grandma Ramsey’s salt-dips—of
who should have them next;
Joyce’s kids aren’t interested. I am.
Too many of the women help Barb serve chocolate cake.
We have a hard time counting who is having ice cream, who is
having only cake,
who is having nothing at all.
At least one of us should sit down and be counted.
There are pictures—Barb’s great-grand daughter,
a hotel where someone stayed in Branson,
the prosthetic foot newly made for Joyce’s son—to
be put on next week at Walter Reed.
She’ll drive there on Tuesday. “He’ll be able
to do everything,” she tells us.
“They can do so much for our boys these days. He’ll
be able to run.”
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