Grass overlaid by mahogany apples that fell to feed seeds to the soil and die. Steam and ash tremble from canyons like burning hands and entryways to nightmares. Trains fly up from the pits like graffiti, crooks leaping up from the earths crust delivering mad people to worn homes, houses caught by the river. There are no seasons. Never three people in one place.
Draughts pour in with the stench of fruit sap and yeast.
The cane is breaking. I sat in back with my sister. Mom was next to him up front. They talked and laughed. We had never been in a car together, all of us in such a small space.