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|One November Night|
By David Meuel
Dad turned the headlights off.
Then the engine.
Then he squeezed his keys tight,
tight against the thick walls of his palm.
"Your grandma is very sick,"
he told my brother and me.
For a moment, we just sat,
three stiff jackets
in the still station wagon
on the driveway
simmering with shadows.
But then he tried to talk again,
tried to say
that something big as boulders
was crashing down
on our little pebble of experience.
© Copyright 1997, 2007, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 07/23/2000