By 5:30 most summer nights, Keith has called it a day and has made his way to the front porch. He has his phone and his iPad. He cues up some Bob Dylan or Nekko Case and welcomes the evening.
He props the front door open with one of the tennis shoes he’s left out there. An old one.
Upcycling. Re-purposing. Pick your word.
We do this without thinking. The shoe as doorstop. The broom handle that holds the window open. Old crate as side table. An old saw as folk art.
But then there are the times we are forced to re-envision the objects around us. A towel held in a car window on a road trip to keep the sun off your legs. The chimney is crumbling, so you put candles in the fireplace decoratively. All the bowls are dirty, so you eat reheated soup right from the sauce pan.
And when we really have to, we get very creative. The Fruity Pebbles isn’t just a breakfast cereal, it’s a shameless bribe. The text isn’t just FYI, it’s a test to see if he’s still mad.
We get good at this.
You wander over to the neighbor’s as he’s sitting outside.
You worry, but you can’t say you worry. Not to him.
He’s 82 and will drive across country whenever his son calls.
He’s had a couple strokes and though he lost a lot of weight, he’s gained it back.
But you can’t say anything. You can’t suggest maybe he fly to visit his son. You can’t insist he hire the kid down the block to mow his yard. You ask where his wife is. She’s not feeling well, he says. You talk about what’s happening at his church. What his grandkids are doing. Their plans for the holiday.
You’re listening to how sure his voice is. You’re watching his right arm and how much he shifts in his chair. You make a joke to see if he’s got a sense of humor today.
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