Often, on house calls, the clients meet my Dad with lemonade or tea, occasionally fresh milk. As we pull off the highway and into Uncle Harry's drive this afternoon, I watch the long, empty porch and its lonely swing pass by. Summers, we played with my cousin, Brett, here on the farm, my brother and me. We'd fish the pond. I tried fishing last summer with Dad, but he only made it an hour until the heat made him dizzy. Spells of “vertigo,” he called it, but not an inner ear thing, something with his heart. That Kareem Abdul-Jabbar disease. I can never remember the name.
It’s All Broken Up in There
