long hot sun dropped rock in my path.
"falling rock", always singular, took my tire.
lying behind dead vehicle in 90 degree sun, there was no more sky.
not late. no late to be had, really, with so much time. just too much sun.
waving, waving hands alongside road, hoping someone can stop. hoping it won't
be a columbine caliber serial killer.
then, a voice.
"looks like a nasty blowout you got there"
i could tell from his trouser cuff and soft shoes he was going to be my
bapa, incarnate, come back to save me from myself.
as i gather the rim caps in a plastic bag, he is impressed.
"i used to work in technical theater", i blushed back, when he calls
me an expert, says he needn't even stop to help me.
but he had started me breathing again.
is this because i wrote about you, bapa? am writing your story
all their stories
the bad and the ugly, the true and the lovely?
or just because only the old stop? it's old fashioned to stop.
"it should be illegal to make these temporary tires", as he squeezes the last
hub cap nut on. smiles at me and the repacked trunk while he was working.
"very impressive, sweetie. you'll be just fine."
for the grandfather on hwy 285, just south of morrisson where my ex-lover still might live, who lives himself near the firehouse and was going to the lumber mill in a madras shirt, so many thanks, to not feel alone, pinned by the sun in a shift-tilt lens appearance, upswung on the mountain-side highway. i didn't need your help, but i sure am grateful for your smile.
(as of tomorrow i will be out of contact for a month. have a good rest of summer, wherever you are and do smile at old men, would you?)