A violent hurricane of words
Shook the house.
They seeped through the cracks in the ceiling
And crawled under the doors.
They slithered up the staircase
And bled through the walls.
Thousands of fire-red ants
Seared pinholes into my flesh.
Words were thrown
Like crumpled tissues into a waste-bin.
I sat on my bedroom floor
With my knees crushed against my chest
As truth gobbled me up like a Sunday feast.
Allison Keeton Fisher
It’s a small town, the center of which is situated just about three miles south of Interstate 64 in eastern Kentucky. The connecting road between the town and the Interstate is a four-lane highway dotted with businesses and homes built on and into the hills that border the road. Close to the Interstate, nestled on a hill at the edge of the forest, is a funeral home that transports the deceased through town and all over the countryside to small family cemeteries.
On a recent trip home, my mother and I were driving north on this connecting highway toward the Interstate, when I noticed that all the cars in front of me were pulling off to the side of the road and stopping. I slowed down, too, simply because I didn’t know what was going on. Then, around the bend, I saw what was happening. There was a hearse leading a long line of cars toward town. I pulled over, like everyone else, and noticed that everything around us had come to a halt as well. In a parking lot across the road, some high school kids were raising money at a car wash. They stopped their laughing and sloshing around and stood still, some with hands folded in front, some with their heads down. Continue reading “Going Home”