the crunch of tires on gravel
the first sound you’ve heard made by human in seven days
How fast does seven days go by for you? Up. Run. Lift. Work. Lunch. Work. Meeting. Meeting. Work. Supper. Bath. Story. Bedtime. Do over. Bam. Seven days gone.
My grandpa had seven day stretches of
Thinking about his friends long gone, his hard working wife, his regrets. His seven days of work in the field that wore his hands and turned his children into able-bodied farm help who worked without pay. He thought of the difference in the dollars from 1938 to 2009. More spent on a coffin for his wife than spent in a year on food…
But still the crunch came sometimes… It was his grandkids a couple times a year, his unapproved girlfriend once a week. She’d wash his t-shirts and sometimes bring friends to play cards.
On my visits I planted tomatoes. I cleared the weeds from my grandma’s flower beds and planted tomatoes next to the house. Afterward, he paid me five bucks. I was 33 and he paid me for weeding his late wife’s flower beds. I didn’t argue.
They met over a stick of gum. He had one, she wanted it. The rest is history and here I am, in a world that is suffering because it doesn’t know the thrill of five bucks for a hard day’s work or the absurdity of paying tens of thousands to bury a box.
Now the doors are soft with moisture. The grass is taller than Natasha. The basement is ripe with mold. Izzy picked grandma’s flowers and left them on grandpa’s couch. I didn’t take a picture.