Rose
Rose drove a convertible white land shark
Father left in the garage when he was away on business. She drove up the coast
with Tom and didn’t feel like a drag. The radio played the Jefferson Airplane when the garden flowers, baby, are dead yes,
the wind off the ocean blowing her hair all around. And your mind, your mind, is so full of red: Mother’s potted tulips
wilting in the So Cal sun.
They had a picnic
with Gallo wine, strong sharp cheese, and an apple Tom split between them with
his boy scout pocket knife, there by the cliffs at Refugio. The green Mexican
blanket in the back seat was a little scratchy when they lay down on it. She
never got cold.
Through
Santa Barbara, under the palms at Hope Ranch and along the white sand it rained
but they didn’t put the top up. When she drove around and around the dolphin
fountain Tom was laughing. He hardly ever laughed.
That
summer they sent her away.
Pistons
pumping, a lawn-mower pulse and wheeze. She looks over her shoulder. The VW comes
up fast: dull black in flat German-November light. Thumbs hooked under leather
backpack straps, hands numb, Rose walks backward keeping her gaze straight and
sober toward the driver. Gravel rasps under her boots. He pulls over a few
paces ahead, pushes the passenger door open like a gate. Even if she wants to
keep going, she can’t. She doesn’t want to keep going.
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