Huntington's Disease: Brushy Lake

Huntington’s Disease

1 Brushy Lake

The ancient pecan tree ached for sky, throwing
nuts like hail stones onto the dirt road bordering
the milo field. Mom spread a blanket across
the still-green grass beneath the limbs stretched

like sea anemones. From the green and wheat-colored
basket, she drew fried chicken, mashed potatoes,
biscuits with homemade jam, corn from the garden
by Mamaw’s house, celery sticks stuffed

with pimento cheese, chicken livers to split
with Julie Beth. They waited and watched Dad
roll up the road from checking the pump
at Brushy Lake, or cross from the rice field

on the back side, idling along in the old ’57 Ford,
not even raising a cloud on the dusty road. He’d
ease up with his door already open because
he never closed it, slide out, and run water

over his dusty hands from the cooler in the back.
Mom and Julie would run up, hand him iced tea
and lead him back to the blanket, shaded
from the massive blue of Arkansas sky, a staining

of white for clouds, while cattle chewed grass tips
on the other side of the fence. On the way home,
Dad took Julie, following Mom who tapped
her breaks at each curve as though she feared

losing control at any moment. He cursed
her caution instead of wondering what caused it,
and rode her bumper home, the second in a line
stretching down the highway.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on The Dead Mule . From his Chapbook: MY MOTHER MAKING DONUTS