Stephanie Anderson: Assay 13

Fall '13 TOC

 

The board over the van's backseat as a bed, the kids' toilet – actually just a training toilet, she realizes years later – both meant to make it a little more like a motor home.

On the way to Kansas, we don't understand why the corn stalks are left in the fields, dried out to yellow.

On a passing truck: Beat on tank with a rubber hammer only.

We watch Miss America.

Her cousin's family had a motor home; she got to explore it when they met up in Saskatchewan. It was a manageable scale. She liked playing in it, sleeping in it.

P explains that feed corn dries on the stalk.

We enter a landscape of lulling hills.

The yellow flowers on the side of the road are more startling for the grey sky.

R reminds us of the dolphin noise for kittens.

She didn't understand why you had to sit up front when the motor home was moving. Why couldn't you sleep in your cubbyhole.

The grey sky vaguely pearlescent and textured.

A full service oil change that includes a free steak dinner.

Getting lost in the parallax effect of the corn, R says.

Abandoned billboards.

Where we stop is nice in a desolate sort of way. A place that seems to exist only to remind you of other places. A thin place. Even the sunflowers are small, R says.

We enter a landscape of bulbous hills.

The looming corn. Sandbags piled next to the railroad tracks. P says, I think I see Omaha.

To her it seemed decadent, the motor home. She hadn't yet encountered it as an only option for living.

::Next::

 

Not Enough Night
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