I’m sitting in the backyard in one of two freshly trash-picked rocking chairs. I bought my ticket for the neighborhood birds’ daily free jazz concert. I slept poorly, but I should find some relief drinking a cappuccino, eating oatmeal with cinnamon and banana, and listening to the forest. If I keep my laptop from sliding off my pajama pants and into the lawn, I’ll call that a win, too.
My dad would’ve only been about fifteen or so, but somehow he had the foresight to record the family jam sessions that would take place every Sunday at Great-Grandma Iva's house in Rahway. Gospel songs, country songs, jokes, somebody flushing a toilet, a long-gone dog catching a ball.
picture this. it’s dark outside. you haven’t seen any other cars for about ten minutes. you turn off the main road and proceed down the long driveway. fog so thick you imagine sticking a straw out the window and drinking it like a ghost-flavored milkshake, but you’re too busy figuring out where to point your car. and you didn’t bring any straws.