The Hour­glass

The Iowa Review - - NEWS -

I take a lit­tle de­tour off the freeway now and then to get a glimpse of their high ce­les­tial shine again—

the guard tow­ers and the ra­zor wire and the sil­very ce­ment of the pri­son where my cousin Kenny lived (felo­nious as­sault/armed rob­bery) for seven years un­til he was set free, and mar­ried, bought a house out in the coun­try, where he lived an­other seven years hap­pily (it seemed)

un­til one day he took a chain­saw to a tree to rid his prop­erty of some tree disease, and in the course of this was pinned be­neath a limb so heavy that it took four men to lift it off of him. He

was dead al­ready when they found him, so no one knows how long he might have borne that weight and lin­gered—whether it took him many hours to die, or if, as they so of­ten say, he never knew what hit him.

But long be­fore this end, my cousin would ride his bike ten miles across for­bid­den busy streets on Satur­days to play with me a game we called Don’t Kill Me, Kenny, Please.

Be­cause to say this was the only way to win.

It was the kind of play that made my par­ents wary, so when we heard my fa­ther’s pock­ets full of keys, we turned on the TV and pre­tended to be watch­ing:

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.