In the back of dad’s ford truck, I sat on the wheel hub, hemmed in by splintered two by fours with holes in them from the nails I pounded out, some powdery drywall puzzle pieces I helped tear apart, and the broom mom gave me to sweep it all out with when we were done.
“Get it out there, girl!” Dad hollered at me with his thumbs tucked under his overall straps just below the silver buckles. He’d feed me more wood so I could far-fling it, shot-put it, side-wind it, or swing toss our demolition into the hole we called, ‘stinking oblivion.’
I heaved everything we had into a mingled mixed-up mountain of tree branches, cut grass and splintered lumber, being careful not to put a foot too close to the edge. Always, after we finished, dad would wipe his brow with a blue bandana folded four times inside his left pocket, and open the red ice chest to retrieve chilled Visine drops for his tired eyes, along with one fresh soda a piece for him and me.
We’d sit on the tailgate, taking swigs of orange pop. I’d swing my legs out over the great chasm, all satisfied-like.
come~ sit at the edge
of a broken earth and see
that all is not lost