Thursday, May 11, 2006

Writing myself into a corner...

We pulled into her aunt’s driveway around eleven, midnight, whenever—about two hours off-schedule due to my old man’s afternoon crawl along the interstate. No need for a quiet entry from the dark of night: every light in the house seemed to be on. We went in through the kitchen, Parker’s knock being more of a gentle announcer than of one seeking permission.

Standing at the sink with her back facing us, a tall and very old woman with long silver hair tied with colored scarves barely turned in our direction before saying:

Stillwater Strother Crowe.

The woman said my full name as though she’d been expecting me all her life. In her kitchen. In fucking Kansas City, Kansas. Fully facing me now, she leaned against the countertop and folded her arms in some sort of defiant, throw down challenge. I stood immobile, knowing not what to say or think.

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