the wax paper

Relentless Obstruction

was realizing the connecting joint 

between the Quonsets overhead door 

and chain, has disappeared. For three long 

years, a rusted six foot metal bar, an item

I hide around the shed for its own safety, 

provides the necessary leverage for heaving 

to an Impala’s height. Praying it won’t slip. 

 

It’s coming out of work at a quarter to five 

on a Friday, my six and eight-year-old in tow,

a harsh breeze pierced our coats and gloves. 

The question I can’t answer twists in the wind,

encircles and captures, Mom, where’s the car? 

A succession of deep breaths and an even longer 

exhales are required to simply say, so did I. 

I’m left wondering where he would tow my car 

and what will we do for the weekend, if I can’t find it.

 

It’s coming home to find my hillside of pasture grass,

chopped. Taken down at its base, before my neighbor

could be called in to harvest. My revenue, a few hundred

needed dollars, appropriated without asking. My silent

vow to cut the entire acre of hillside pasture with sewing

scissors, the next time I can’t afford fuel for the Huskie.

 

It's watching my television satellite suddenly evaporate 

from the back yard. The dog kennel panels covertly walk 

away at midnight and all I have for comfort is the knowledge 

that at least I still have the connecting saddle clamps and bolts, 

safe in my basement. Until I see the Menards ad. Saddle clamps 

on sale. One week only. A check in an endless series of endgames.

Heidi Sampson’s creative non-fiction has appeared within The Lunch Ticket of Antioch University, Los Angeles. She also freelances for the Mankato Free Press and The Minnesota Valley Business Magazine, both of Mankato. 

Also appearing in The Wax Paper is Sampson's poem, The Container.