WAITING

The high delta north of Memphis

baked me brown in nineteen sixty-two.

There was no wind, so the heat did not

come in waves across the cotton, but

settled down on us like God’s hot breath

until we could barely think.

My twelve year old arm turned the crank

while salty sweat blurred my vision.

Everything took its own sweet time

that afternoon, except the sporadic motion

of the ladies’ hand-held, funeral home fans.

We barely turned our heads to acknowledge

a dry comment from Papa about nothing or

something,

“Maybe the Lord will return this year...

all the signs are right.”

So I rubbed my eyes and looked up,

still turning the crank. Everyone waited

with patient expectation as they quietly broiled

on the painted metal lawn chairs around the

table where I labored.

An uncle leaned against a peach tree

a little closer than the rest, spitting strings

of brown juice in slow motion

at the dusty earth.

The sun flicked fire at my face and bare shoulders

working steadily away, while the tin cylinder

ground around in the flame-lit ice,

and we waited for the Lord’s return.

or maybe a bowl of ice cream

if He was late.

Author's Note

I think I may have posted this before, but I'm too lazy to go back and look. It is a true story of my life serving a family full of "The greatest Generation" uncles and aunts. There were a million of 'em and all different, but never once did I see them argue. Me and mine, the hippies and Viet Nam vets, are just a shadow of who they were and what they gave us.

Reviews

[Ms claws]

I just cannot hold back! The way you write about you as the boy turning the crank for ice cream in flaming hot sun while kin folk patiently wait all knowing the long road ahead and the uncle spitting steams of brown spittle floating in slow motion. The heat settling like God's hot breath upon you all. I wish you and Lisa could send your writings to different publishers. Somebody needs to see this!

[Vol]

Well, Forever, Thank you for this sweet vote of confidence. I agree, but have no idea how to get started with all that...
Vol

[Ms claws]

Bulkowski sent a thousand poems before he finally got recognized! I adore you. Always.

[Michael Sun Bear]

Nice writing about a nice memory. I love the image of the uncle spitting tobacco juice; that really cemented the whole thing together for me.

[Vol]

That was my uncle Carlton... he chewed cigars from the butt forward, Redman tobacco, dipped snuff, and smoked a pipe. He was one of the meanest man I've e ver known.