Over the River

A crisis.

“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go!  Wee!”

“Aw, I freakin’ love you kids,” said Father, driving with the utmost caution a loving father can.  “I can’t wait to get to Mom’s and have the dandiest picnic on this side of the Colorado!”

And they followed the Colorado south, until it met at a fork with the San Juan, and forests were seen all along the horizon, right and left.

“Daddy!” said little Suzy.  “Look!  There’s the river!  And there’s the woods!”

“No, Daddy,” said Daddy Junior.  “On my side!  There’s the real river and the real woods!”

Father couldn’t even bring himself to look at the two rivers or the two woodses, if that’s really the plural of woods; he just looked straight out between, to the meridian where everything met, where everything seemed to fold inward on itself a million times over.  He wanted to explode.

“Kids,” said Father, bitter with a hint of neo-realistic disillusionment, “I think it’s about time we headed home.”

He wanted to drive off a cliff and kill himself and everything he ever created.  Because no matter how many times he took directions from Grandmother, she always repeated that same stupid f*****g song because her memory was shot and would never come back.  And he’d never get to Grandmother’s house for that jolly old picnic.  Not this year, at least.

Author's Note

I'm basically asleep when I write these.