I dreamed a dream of home and there is coffee in Dad’s cup on the dining room table. I am prone on the living room floor with a throw pillow behind my head. I am staring at an RCA Victor color television. Football is on. The dinner is over and people are sprawled out in armchairs and on sofas or on the floor like me. Belts are unbuckled. The only people moving are the really little kids. They are playing with well worn toys from an old toy chest.
The cranberry sauce cut in half circles right out of the can is gone. The gherkins have disappeared. The mashed potatoes didn’t completely disappear but that is okay. Tomorrow they will be potato pancakes to go with the eggs fried in bacon grease. There will be turkey to nibble on all night and gravy for sandwiches. The wet dish towels are wrung out and have been hung up. All the good plates and silver are gone back to the buffet’s storage compartments. The day is gray and brown, but it is not raining.
One by one each of the ten or so people in the living room give in to the tryptophan, and to the massive amount of energy expended in making the meal and cleaning up afterwards. First one head tips back and to the side and with the blink or two the eyes shut. Soon I am the only person in the room not snoring and/or drooling. Life is good. Life is safe.
I get up and put on my Robert Hall dark brown corduroy jacket. Slipping silently out the side door I walk down to the creek. I pull out a hard pack of Marlboro reds from my pocket. I pull a cigarette out and light it. Inhaling deeply I stand on the old iron bridge and watch the water rush by. 1971 will be over soon.
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