haibun
A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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September 2009, vol 5 no 3

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Robert Moyer

 

Just Like Always

Sunday morning we ride through the countryside past alternate fallow and well-tilled fields of southern Ohio, on our way to Grandad’s farm, through towns so small my daddy says if you blink, you'll miss ‘em. I did, and they were still there when I opened my eyes. Daddy laughed.

It looks like the road will run right into Grandad’s barn at the top of the hill. It never does, it veers off, drops us off on a long winding lane that leads to the barnyard where Grandad shakes Daddy’s hand, Grandma sends her feathery kisses just past our cheeks.

through the fence rail
our hands sink into
lamb’s wool

on the way home the dim light of the car radio, the murmur of Mother and Daddy’s voices suspend me between awake and asleep, between here and there, a place I never want to leave, my cheek against the grey flannel seat of a ’52 Ford.

When we pull into the garage, I feign sleep so Daddy will have to carry me into the house. He always does.

blue skies
at the top of the hill
new owners

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