December 10
My parents have both been dead for over ten years. I have no siblings. I don’t miss them, honestly. I used to think of my parents like a rainstorm, uncertain yet regular, something that will come and go, both irritating, and before sleep, soothing. I don’t know why they appear to me in the shape of a rainstorm, but that’s how I feel.
I used to visit them, on their farm in Arkansas, every summer. I never went for Christmas. The holiday flight was expensive, I said. They never argued.
They seemed very content to me. When I fantasize about the accident, which happened close to Thanksgiving, I see the two of them in my father’s cherry red pickup truck and I imagine them happy and sitting close, driving at night on a wet, winding rural road. Swift and elegant, that death. I thi
