Diane Payne--The Old House

Diane PAYNE

THE OLD HOUSE

Sitting beneath the mesquite, I see them drive up in a truck.
The man tells me he lived here when he was a boy. Points to the
old shack where I store my bike. I encourage them to walk around
the property. The father leads the way. He feels the rotting wood
on the shack, peers inside the window. Nothing is left but an old toilet.

I imagine him sitting on the steps as a boy, the steps his father built.
The coop filled with chicken. The freeway just a two-lane road connecting Mexico to Arizona.

He tells me his father bought that house for fifty bucks from Fort Huachucha,
loaded it on a truck, and brought it here himself. His wife and daughter listen
intently. Apparently this is their first visit to his old house.

I tell him the neighbors still gather at the old adobe house next door
every Sunday. They sing, play guitars and accordians, throw horseshoes
until early morning. He laughs. Tell him the old man died this year.
"Just like the old days. That old man was my dad's age. He had to be eighty-six."

He looks at my daughter, and asks how old she is. "I was seven like you when
I moved here." He steps away from the fire ants. "Pour grits on them.
They'll eat it and bloat right up until they explode."

Slowly they return to their truck and drive away.
I find a box of grits in the kitchen, pour them
over the ants, and sit beneath the mesquite tree
waiting for the monsoon storm.

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