No idea where my father got the shortwave that sat on the kitchen counter that we huddled around waiting for Our Sacred Lady of Mount Carmel & Precious Blood to be heard in the falling list the drifts already above thighs his car tracks packed ready to be cross country skied all powder or snowmobile trails appear and he’d be gone off to midwife or coroner or more often than not a car crash so easy to cross that whited-out line in a blizzard snow-tires can’t avoid a semi-truck storming into the headlights but that radio was short and stout and black and grey the antenna could be extended to the roof like the volunteer fire truck ladder ridden if the next town is beaten in slap-shots and poke-checks put the puck on the top shelf right where the peanut butter sits god forgive the kid that turned the knobs or turned one of the three stations static would be hell to freeze over the shortwave was heavy and lasted for ever longer than eight track lazar disc DVD CD VHS I-touch pad pod bud it’s still in the garage under the canoe needing hull patches if they still make mammoth triple D batteries bet it still might bring the news better than the multi-sourced bubble of rain and sleet no need for snowshoes anymore when’s the last time chains were needed on a back-wheel drive bald as a seal pelt actually that was April in California of all places crossing from Death Valley toward Napa the cops stopped the rental and said it was law and you said I though we were from the nanny state and no one laughed what do we have here my cousin selling chains for $200 USD if you make it over the pass we’ll do a take-back at fifty snowflake landing on eyelash inner snicker those snow-days were essays in freedom straight onto the frozen Lake which only froze flat once always capped mountains and pointy bergs for slipping and sliding down into a ice wave cellar belly curled silent around by the divine maker and no one told anyone what to do except go home and stand by the fire when wiggling your fingers or toes felt impossible.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.