45
Gabriella Flournoy
I can almost hear—whoosh, whoosh—even though I sit many feet
below inside my Volvo with the sun roof open. 45, the highway, is
an artery through our city. I travel this stretch of road many times a
day, a month, a year. I wouldn’t want to calculate the time.
This stretch is only about a mile from my house. It is
often congested, as its many intersecting options often prove too
much for the novice Houston driver. From this point, you can go
all directions. Far away or into town. It's a spoke in the wheel
we make our way to school. I’m an older sister who took on the
responsibility of helping to raise my sibling from an early age.
I love him. He's great and sweet. He likes it when I take him to
history lessons just like my Dad always did to me.
As the bird continues to struggle in the air above us,
I imagine the scene that would follow his drop. Through our
I hope it happens, almost. It would take a lot of luck and some
impressive timing but I think to myself, it could happen. Only for a
split second do I consider the bird and whatever ailment its dealing
with—mostly I consider the scaly feet that would tear through my
leather seats, or the leftover downy feathers that would probably
be in my car for years to come. I also consider having to kill it.
kind of thing. Sudden death. But this one is of my creation, of my
imagination. I wonder if I’m a little sick.
***
As Jake and I drive home from dinner we are silent almost
the whole way home. Not in the mad way. Just in the way that two
people in a relationship do. We’ve been together all day and we’re
full. We don’t really need words. We aren’t far from home—only
about a mile away—so later we can hear the sirens wail and we’ll
76