Roadside Devotions, or What Might Be the Last Ice Cream Cone

Past the horses grazing in front of a subdivision, there’s a hill and a sign denoting the dip that runs over a creek.        Like the hills we used to ask Dad to go faster over, roller coaster imitation,          many on the road to our grandparents’ house. I had dreams over and over again that we went on a joyride in the Suburban on a half mile stretch there, seven and nine years old.                       Anyway, after I take the dip a little too fast, it’s about five minutes and then we are at the end of R’s life together.               He is sitting on his back patio blasting music I can feel in my teeth.                     I always think I will know what to say, and I don’t.                 This is something none of us can see through and something we all do. He says he’ll ride to get ice cream with me, might as well before he checks out.      It's all through me, he says.            We roll all the windows down.                        He sticks his head out the window, wind blows his hat into the backseat.                                       Puts his hand out the window to point at the swamp, the styrofoam on the side of the road,              the big green leaves,               the spray painted yard sign that says Don’t Litter!               and he says,                     This is terrific, terrific, I bless it.

Earlier, before the blessing, me and S are sitting and watching semi trucks roll into the gas station across the road from the Pizza Ranch. Some Bible pamphlets are stacked on a wobbly wooden table next to the menus. S has her hood pulled up over her head so I can only see one of her eyes when she turns to look at me. We can hear a kid begging for more dessert pizza. She says her favorite part of being a mom was watching her kids carry their instruments to the school bus. I jam my tongue into the roof of my mouth so I don’t cry. She says her husband always took the kids’ ice skates to be sharpened. When I ask her what he was like, she says, He was really gentle, you know. Really sensitive. I still miss him. I ask if he has died and she says he’s still alive. Sometimes I think I see him out there. We stare ahead at the sign that tells us the party room is available for our groups with the purchase of 6 or more buffets. Oh, well! she says, shrugging her shoulders and beginning to laugh. Smiles with those two brown teeth. Oh, well, that’s what I say.