“Life is strange,” my father says, at 95. Why argue with that?
I drove down to TX to see him last week, to try and convince him
to stop driving. Going for Logos, I showed him a picture I took
of the front of his car. He says “ask again later,” just like
a Magic 8 Ball. “Come back, come back,” it sings.
We’re a powerful galactic wind. I thought that to myself,
going over the rumble strips approaching the highway.
Make way for the rock and rollers. And all other times
that are not this time hear it as well, and pause
and lift a glass to you, then continue on, and I’m still
waiting for an idea to kick in. It sits there before me
like an ice cream parlor, one with dairy free and vegan options,
and balloons along the counter and that perfect crisp smell.
On the way home there was a chair, a couple boxes
that had exploded, and a mattress in the highway in this hysterical
calm we swerved around, so I called the county sheriff
but got the wrong county, and had to call again
and tell it a second time, not quite sure of the mile marker,
but now I’ll always know when I’m crossing
from Buchanan County into Nodaway County. We’re in a lull
now, waiting to find out if my father is going to try driving.
It’ll hit 60 degrees today. We’re in harvest season
and are told to watch out for farm equipment, to which
I’ve added boxes, chairs, and mattresses
and this vision of my father,
as all of this translates into the same message
we imagine constantly. Well, I don’t know about you, but I
imagine it constantly, as it’s hailing ibuprofen.