He was doing the dishes, midmorning, when he noticed the white car drive by, and drive by again. A quiet street, on the way to nowhere. At eleven, the school bus would show up, to deliver lunches to the children who couldn’t go to school. Otherwise, almost no cars he didn’t recognize.
The house my mother grew up in burnt down in ’85. I hope y’all never experience something like that—losing everything, Mom told my brothers and me when we were too young to understand.
Now that I’m dead too, just like the living dead on TV, fat chance that the merely living will be saved by doing what they did when I was merely living— nailing their doors shut against me, hurricane-proofing the windows, positioning snipers at the embrasures.
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