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.