Russell sits on the hood of his ‘67 Coronet, contemplating
the end of the day. The corn all around has paled to a rust and the sky is a
bruise. But it’s kinda nice. The girl is sleeping in the back of the car. He
slides offs the Dodge to look, touching her face. She breathes easily. And his
Father is in the barnyard cursing his Chevy-C12, He feels a little bad knowing Dad
has to fix it himself.
Russell sighs and heads out to the little family plot under
the looming stars and scarecrows. He inspects the monuments—old friends— one at
time, saving the newest for last. He traces the familiar inscription with a
finger, scratching at the lichens already taking hold. He snirks at the carved
cherub as he plops down at the base. His mom’s idea of a joke, no doubt.
He never was an angel.
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