I
lean out the window again, craning my
neck upward to look at the sky, never
removing my hand from the steering wheel.
Still no good, I think, as I duck my
head back into the car, returning my
eyes to the road speeding beneath me.
The clouds never seem to give me the
thick bank of cover I need, with the
moon peeking out again and again. Complete
darkness is required, no moonlight.
At least I’ve left
the streetlights far behind, their last
bit of fake amber glare fading away maybe
ten minutes ago, on the outskirts of Williamson.
But I must still be close to town, too
close, for the power lines continue along,
their peaks and dips following beside me
on my journey, my mission, my grim task.
The presence of power lines means I have
yet to reach nowhere—those lines are taking
their power to someplace or someone, and
as long as that place or person is nearby
I haven’t gone nearly far enough.
I need remoteness
and darkness, and those power lines and
that peek-a-boo full moon show me I still
have neither, even up here in the hills.
Remoteness is needed to avoid strangers
passing in their cars, darkness to prevent
any that do pass from spying what I’m hauling
out of my trunk and dragging into the woods.
I’ve got my shovel
and a strong back. The job shouldn’t take
more than twenty minutes, and after that
I’ll have absolutely no regrets.
#
People
in town would be horrified about
what I’m doing. They’d say I’m showing
him disrespect, as if they ever respected
him themselves, treated him with
any dignity at all. Those so-called
respectable people always looked
down on him, never thought he was
good enough or anything but an embarrassment
to the town. But though they had
no use for him in life, now they’d
want him in their cemetery, somehow
pretending to respect him when they
never did when he was alive. But
I refuse to have any of that hypocrisy.
Whatever his faults, he deserves
better.
And he did
have his faults. He never held down
a steady job, never kept his house
and yard maintained, never showed
the proper deference to his betters.
And of course he drank heavily, mostly
as a fuck-you to them; since he’d
never have their approval anyway,
he’d just drink himself into oblivion,
briefly enjoying the buzz for a while
before descending into incoherence.
I’d show up
hours before closing time—answering
the bar’s nightly phone call, always
the good son—to drag him home. Leaning
heavily on my shoulder, he’d spew
insults against the town and its
lies and its idiocy all the way back
to our house, his feet wobbling all
over the sidewalk. At the house,
he’d rant for a while longer before
passing out, sleeping the night through
and getting up the next morning to
do it all over again.
#
It’s done.
I wipe my hands, observe a moment
of silence, and turn away.
I emerge from
the woods, shovel trailing behind
me. The moon glows unseen behind
an afghan of clouds, a sight he would
have liked. I know he would have
been happier here, in his beloved
hills, under an elusive moon. He
never felt at home in town, never
felt welcomed though he lived there
his entire life. He would have gladly
left for these hills long ago, but
he had to stay where the work was,
the booze getting him by.
Watching after
him was all that kept me in town;
now that he’s at rest there’s no
reason to stay. I start the engine
and steer onto the road, heading
away from the power lines and streetlights
of the distant town that was home
for neither of us, and from the shadowy
hills that now can never be home
for me.
