From writing class today, where the assignment was to write about an animal, an insect, a house, or a tree…

I appear in her dreams because I am her childhood – hardwood floors, double French doors, and a fireplace big enough to burn a car. My bomb shelter was built at the time when it was chic, when the Russians were the red scourge with nuclear weapons capable of annihilating bacon sandwiches assembled in my kitchen. And they were the best bacon sandwiches with crispy fried fat, runny ketchup, and burned toast, the kind she made when her mother wouldn’t get out of bed.

My roof was backboard to a thousand hickory nuts, heaved into the air by my peak. I watched as they tumbled into my rain gutter. She threw a baseball through my front window, a basketball into my garage door, and a boomerang into the mudroom’s screened porch. I didn’t complain. She was the last person off the property when I was sold, and the only one to return when they took a wrecking ball to me. She watched my chimney fall like a shot soldier, and the workmen run my well dry. She watched me die, not the quiet demise of old age and deterioration, but one of shouting and falling bricks.

And so, I return to her in dreams with ripe persimmons, overgrown bushes, and windows that want washing. Lightning brings the methodical plink plunk of summer rains on my patio. The dream water melts everything, including myself. For her, I die again, knowing this is an ending she can endure.


4 Responses to “Home”

  1. Driver, that is really good. I’m sure the others in the class had praise for you.

    • Thanks. Last night I thought it was good. Today I think it’s sappy. Not sure what they thought in class. It’s the Amherst method where they can’t say anything negative.

  2. I enjoyed this writing very much….kinda like all your writings!

  3. Thanks so much, Connie

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