Flying Island

End Road Work A line of traffic cones arcs toward the berm, where an orange sign reads “End Road Work.” Good idea, I think. This fixing things is getting in the way of doing them. Hard to get somewhere when your path is constantly in repair. And anyway, lately things have been fixing themselves. The car stopped making that noise. The birdbath stopped leaking. And I’ve finally started sleeping more than just an hour at a time. But I don’t want to think about what’ s really going on. That the squeaky piece is quiet now because it fell off somewhere along the road, and the whole driveshaft is just waiting to drop out. That crack in the birdbath is plugged with built-up rust and crud. Rest- less bodies will run out of fuel eventually. I’m grateful for the sleep. There is no end to roadwork. But I know nothing about tarmac or car parts. When your child is so hurt that he lies down in the street, what tool or piece can m...

Home Between the courthouse, where my brothers all appeared in turn, and the old jail, where they were lucky enough not to, there was Locust Alley and Willards, where we used sticks for swords. “ Un-guard! ” we cried, all the way home from a Zorro matinee at the Roxy or the Garden, the only two theaters in town, right across the street from each other. That block of Mary’ s Alley that ran behind our house and Aunt Cindy’ s, where the guy pulled a switchblade on me, and I let my tricycle topple over as I ran? It’s been turned to turf, along with all those neighboring lots, for the baseball field at Robb School. Our old double-block home has been replaced by first base. Second is where Ross, the bully, stole my Sears banana bike and removed the training wheels. He ’s buried now in Swissdale cemetery near my cousin Sam—two accidents, a motorcycle and a boy’s first car. Home plate is where Mrs. Seyler lived. How we made her pay ...