Any minute the snow will fall. Living here you learn to glance at the northwestern sky to gauge how much time before the front blows in. And yet, the car in front of me, a once-blue-gone-oxidized-silver Chrysler LeSomething, has a box spring and mattress, uncovered, strapped (with one length of rope) across its roof. It is bouncing, the car, east through downtown. I want to watch and so I follow at a discreet distance in my winter-front-proofed Derby truck. Ready for anything. And yet, what I don’t have and what I want is what the Chrysler driver has: a disregard for fronts blowing in.
The way red is important to the overall scheme of every other color. Red is how yellow feels getting her hand stamped at the county fair.
The things we know but don’t experience. An astronaut’s sun: our star burning in a black sky. Of course, they’d fly over thunder clouds.
Transpose: Crack the earth and swallow.
When I was three, my Irish uncles showed up at the back door to help our family move. Mom remembers baby socks drying on a rack; rack strapped to the hood of an uncle’s car. Socks flapping.
We moved one block away: from Chicago Avenue to Garnet Avenue in Butte, a copper mining town. The open-mine pit later engulfed both of those streets and we moved again. And again.
I remember sleeping/waking in the bottom bunk bed, the bed swaying as a crew of uncles moved the bed in one piece into someone’s dump truck. My brothers and I holding on for the ride.
Someone handed us pancakes. We held them in our hands, pancakes rolled around a smear of apple butter.