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      January 7, 2014The Story, Part of ItMarge Saiser

      The story, part of it, is that
      the tractor was parked, running,
      at the top of the hill, and that
      my sister Jennie, ten years old, climbed
      up and took a seat at the wheel. The story,
       
      part of it, is that my father worked on something
      attached behind the tractor, the boom of the digger
      or the chain, perhaps; the story does not tell all. It tells
      what he said to Jennie, his instruction; it tells
      what he said into the fierce wind blowing that day,
      the roar of the wind and the roar of the tractor.
       
      He said, “Whatever you do, don’t step on the clutch.”
      The wind took his words, flipped and turned them,
      gusted them even as it gusted everything it could,
      even as it tossed the ends of the red scarf Jennie wore,
      flapping it out and back, out and back. Jennie
      heard him say “Step on the clutch” and she did.
      The tractor lurched down the hill like an animal
       
      freed. The story, part of it, tells how the tractor
      rolled, gaining, how Jennie stood steadfast
      on the clutch, hanging onto the wheel, her hair
      and her red scarf flying with the speed of it, how
      the tractor roared down the slope until it
      hit the barbed wire fence at the bottom,
      broke through and rolled over,
      how she flew off, and the clutch engaged and
      killed the engine. Everything was at that second
      silent from the roaring, and Jennie was
      face-down on the grass, alive, but he, my father,
      thought she was dead.
       
      And years later when my father was dying, I called
      Jennie. You’d better come, I said. She arrived
      at the hospital and I met her at the main door
      to show her through the maze, the halls,
      to my father’s last room. We turned the turn
      and could see him ahead. No longer
      a man at work. Or rather a man doing
      the new work of dying. He sat in the bed, tubes
      into the skin of the backs of his hands.
      He looked up and caught
      sight of her, of us, and then he did what
      Jennie cannot explain, get over, understand,
      make sense of: he put his hand over his eyes;
      he looked down at the floor while we came to him.
      The story, part of it, is that Jennie cannot let go of this.
      She told me: It’s what he’s always done—
      he did not want to see me, to look at me.
      No, I told her. No, it was to keep from crying.

      from #40 - Summer 2013

      Marge Saiser

      “I like to write in coffee shops. I have a perfectly good chair by the window at home, but I go to the Mill or to the Vibe or to Meadowlark; much better coffee than home, and there’s biscotti. If I’m lucky, I’ll fill pages with scribble and hit upon some nerve that turns toward a poem. If not coffee shops, then a retreat to my friend’s cabin on the Platte with several other women. We keep silence and write.”