catapult magazine

Dry August Air/Dry August Grass

by Scott Vande Kraats

north dakota passes so quickly by the
passenger side window of this red honda
the black and gray interior warms with the
sun’s ascension in the sky, contrasting the
lukewarm of the pool forming just below my surface
in silence and behind dark sunglasses I look
at my father behind the wheel:

hands at 10 and 2, eyes in a vigilant forward gaze
his clip on sunglass at an awkward angle on his
wire frames, ridiculous Pan Am Games cap back
on his bald head, even years after the end of his
coaching career, he holds the posture of someone
with a play in mind, tense with anticipation to put
it into action – but not today

silence, as I perceive it, is the beginning and end
of all human experience
at our embryonic stages there is no thought to
voice, at our deathbed there is no voice to connect
the thought – so it is in the car on this warm afternoon
the birth of a man, the death of a boy, and a father
who is both mourning and celebrating
not knowing which to express to this enigma
sitting in silence next to him, smoking and thinking

my father?s fallen curls speak through the years and
my thinning blades of brown straw reply in a quiet
concession: I think I understand now

years of silence spent at the dining room table
under a single incandescent light, nose in papers
and briefcases, early mornings spent with the CBC
and me behind the kitchen counter crouching in the
heat of a single vent; a bond of mutual bondage
you were the constant calm in the eye of the constant storm
the reason behind madness, and you bore it all
with understanding and a smile

And I always liked your stupid jokes from the head of the table

as we near the south dakota border he pulls into
a gas station and puts half a tank on his credit card
with a pat on the back he leaves me the warm
driver’s seat and gets behind the wheel of his
black economy sedan my mom had been driving ahead of us
I take Tea for the Tillerman out of the CD player
and slide in something by Radiohead
I’m left with this strange experience of my father
to ponder through puffs of smoke floating past
my face and out the window
subtle prairie beauty, like him,
Humble, gentle, unassuming
But something to behold