Judy Harju Galliher: WHEN I SEE MY SON IN YOUR TRUCK • Cleaver Magazine

Flash Nonfiction by Judy Harju Galliher
WHEN I SEE MY SON IN YOUR TRUCK

I remember our road trip to the reunion, how we crammed into the cab of your Tacoma truck, how the metal rod in your spine meant you couldn’t turn your neck to check for clearance and change lanes, your whole torso turned, and what really killed you—the arthritis or the metal rod?—since you had no flexibility when you tumbled down the stairs, drunk; sure, Dad says alcohol destroyed you, maybe, but we both know whiskey costs way less than the prescription drugs you couldn’t afford, not on $1,200 a month, I didn’t know you were destitute (should I have known? should I have tried to help?), Dad helped pay for the Tacoma and transferred the title to my son after you died, he could see how much Jess enjoyed driving your truck when we hauled your flannel shirts, file cabinet, and frying pans to the dump; later we pulled up the soiled, smelly carpet and brought that to the landfill, too, we threw your whole household on top of the heap, the lathe turning tools, the laundry basket, the litter box, even the extra cans of Fancy Feast; your cats freaked out after you died, Max and Boots pissed everywhere before the police broke in, Dad says he gave your cats to someone who would care for them, but who knows, it feels too easy and too fast, who jumps in and takes two cats just like that, we found the pistol in your nightstand, the one you used when we stopped at the roadside and tumbled out of the Tacoma for target practice, I didn’t know how to shoot, but you sure did; you put a bullet through the heart of the Coke can you perched on a log in the woods; when we cleaned out your bedroom with the dozen or so Seagram’s bottles scattered across the floor the messiness surprised us, disgusted us, but I figured if you couldn’t turn your head and lived in chronic agony, every minute, every day, maybe it hurt to bend over to pick things up, to put them away, to vacuum, wash dishes, empty the dishwasher, clean out the fridge; when we found retinol and collagen lotion in your bathroom vanity, I thought vanity is right, how odd that you and our brother Allen, who already died, spent time and money to hide signs of aging, you with these upscale men’s skin care products and Allen covering his gray hair for his daughter’s wedding; I wondered why you two cared so much about how you looked, and I don’t, it seems too much like Mom for me to buy skin cream and color my hair, she favored her boys, we both know that she liked Allen best, but she always worried about you, which left me to fend for myself; you and Dad talked every day to make sure you were okay because of your arthritis and his heart condition, but you didn’t talk for several days the April you died, why did he wait so long to take action, did he not want the answer, was he scared to know, he says you are in a better place now, but that feels like a cop-out, you should be the one driving the Tacoma, outfitting it with an offroad bumper and tinted windows and you should be the one buying gas and oil and tires you can’t afford; and even though you and Allen tried to look young as you aged, you didn’t age, instead, you both died, so now I look old, and I am old, older than you ever were, and your truck gets older every year and more expensive to maintain, but Jess says he will never get rid of it like we got rid of your whole household, the cats, the guitars, the guns; he won’t get rid of it; he loves it too much, just like I love you.

After retiring from a career in corporate communications, Judy Harju Galliher started exploring life through a new lens, delving into life stories. She holds an MFA from Spalding University and has been published in The New York Times, Pangyrus, The Manifestation, and Hippocampus.