Dad drove.
Superbly, thanks to many unforgiving experiences during World War II. He'd dodged German ambushes and land mines. Across France and Belgium, he'd grimly gripped the at-all-costs steering wheel of America's legendary Red Ball Express, delivering supplies to anti-fascist front-line troops. Diving into the trenches with his rifle when needs must.
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in my tomb, my cell, my deliverance, our turquoise mammoth Pontiac > I saw this sign:
Next Exit: Hellfire Forever.
The trees bent down.
Take me. I am ready to disappear.
The trees beside that New Hampshire highway that day, as dad and I headed north, those pure trees bent down and pointed at me. They said that day....
This really happened to me: Sap-stiff northern pines along this highway suddenly and sharply bent down ... to point @ me, through my greasy window. They pointed @ trembling me in that turquoise car with their hundreds of disapproving tippy-tops, like fingers.
For miles (it's New Hampshire, after all).
For miles (it's New Hampshire, after all).
For miles (it's New Hampshire, after all).
This happened.
This really happened ... to me.
In my head. That day.
Miles and miles and miles of treetops pointed at me and announced as we passed:
"You're evil."
Yeah, they did. I was there.