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What A Name Can Do |
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I’m knocking on eighty now. All of my family, most of my friends, have slipped into the quiet places where only memories live, and I carry them the way old trees carry rings. This South Carolina morning is already burning at ninety eight degrees, and the blazing sun caught me out there sealing the driveway. The lawn can wait till after supper. There’s shrubbery behind the barn that needs tearing out, five bird feeders that need filling, a bird bath to refresh, and a fence that’s been asking for mending longer than I care to admit. Cathy — eight years younger and always moving at twice my speed — comes home from the grocery store and reminds me to stay hydrated out in this humid Southern air. She’s right, of course. I follow her inside. “Take off those shoes, they smell like asphalt,” she scolds, dancing around the kitchen with her bags. I sit to rest, drink my sugar free iced tea, and press the cold glass against the spot where a fence post’s nail bit into my arm earlier. When my breath settles, I swallow the last of the tea and get ready to head back out… but habit tells me to check email first. I open my inbox. A message from Pam. And just like that, I’m sixteen again — strumming my long lost 12 string, sitting in Mom’s knotty pine den while she stirs Italian sauce in the kitchen and the whole house smells like Sunday. My brothers are outside working on a '55 Chevy with their friends, Nancy is upstairs singing, and the radio says Long Island might even see a sprinkle of snow today. Thanks, Pam. |