ON A STEAMY AFTERNOON
when everyone wishes
the dark clouds
hanging heavy and low for so long
would get it over with already and break open,
I drive to the consignment shop
with the bottom half of a hutch
I have held onto too long
or not long enough
or just the right amount of time.
Maybe I don’t need to judge that.
It had come to rest
in a dark corner of the family room
where I didn’t need to look at it all the time.
I used it for overflow storage,
a term that suggests to me
I am carrying through life
more than I need.
It is seven turns to get there.
After the fifth,
off Dutchmans Lane,
I check my rearview for Wally’s car
carrying the top half.
I thought I could manage it all myself
with just a little help loading –
two men wait at the other end to unload –
but the thing was too wide
or too deep
or too long by a hair
for my small car.
two cars going to the same place,
but maybe even this is a form of grace.
There is something about the feel
of my hands on the wheel
like I am owning the conveyance.
Perhaps he needs that, too.
Maybe grace comes at times
in the form of circumstances that force things
and I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.
I head home
with nothing more
than the blanket I had used as cushioning,
not needed now.
Two drops on the windshield, then a downpour.
I turn the wipers to high speed,
which, being a shy person,
I rarely use.
And after that, relief.
Backstory: The Small Hutch