Three other things I have to remember:
- On Highway 90, north of the Badlands, east or west of Wall, a little green valley with the first real trees in two hundred miles. A road sign next to a farmhouse: EVEN HERE. “I always loved that Poussin painting,” he says, “you know, like in Blood Meridian? Et in Arcadia ego ...” How did he know?
- The last day driving. Waking up at a rest stop in the mountains outside Ellensburg. Him putting on his blues while we head west. Just before our last gas stop in Easton, him saying: “Do you know this one? I know you love this one ...” Putting on Elizabeth Cotten. The song no one else would think of. The song I heard every time we ever drove through the mountains when we were young. The most beautiful and heartwrenching version of it ever. How did he know?
- Going a year and a half without him. Having to reckon, at last, with the rest of a life without: what it would look like. What it would feel like. Living with my failure -- and my grief -- every day. For the rest of my life. Then in August, after moving out of the city: starting to get an idea about a funny kind of ceremonial valediction. Buying a cheap little bolt-action .22, being responsible for it, taking it out to the timber lands to learn to be a better shot. Redoing the furniture, working on the trigger, making a sling. Alone. By myself. Everything about it would be so painful and so wrong. But also just. By November, knowing I was obligated to it. Reading about bolt-actions I could get for nothing. Dreaming of a funny old Sears & Roebuck catalog rifle, to match the Sears house we saw in Texas years ago.
Getting his call in December.
Never telling him about my plan. Having no reason to. Until:
Unpacking his things at the little house. Suddenly, as if he forgot about it -- “Oh! And here’s yours.” Pulling the case out of a sheet: a funny little 1940s Sears Ranger .22. Rebuilt. Polished to a gleam.
discoholicmusic
prguitarman
yousharknotpass
gracieabrams
pixelskylines
areudirty
