When I was in high school my mother and I took a summer trip with my Grandparents to Memphis, Tennessee to visit Graceland. The trip began innocently enough. Grandma and Grandpa were riding in the back with the map. Mom and I sat up front and giggled at everything. Every now and then a question not relevant to much of anything would come from the backseat. It was obvious that two different conversations were happening in the car. I think Grandma was getting worried that I was driving too fast and might miss the turnoff to Tupelo. She kept the map out, and watched the road signs carefully, calling them out as we’d pass an exit. Meanwhile I was looking for a pop station on the radio in central Mississippi and wasn’t having much luck. Mom was stressed about something as well, though I can’t recall what it was. I think she needed to pee. The car was full of our voices all twisted and tangled with one another as we hurtled toward the Tennessee mountains. Grandpa had remained strangely quiet during all of this. I caught glimpses of him in the rearview mirror and saw him staring out the window, content to be watching the endless cow pastures whizz by. Just then a large truck came up on my left side. I merged over a bit to give it more room and to escape the wind shear coming off the sides. Mom continued her quest for any sign of a restroom. Grandma unfolded and folded the map again.
“Look, there goes a truck load of chickens,” Grandpa said.
The car fell silent.
