Flat Tires by Douglas Colby

The DOORS OPEN SLOWLY. It is the middle of January. The windows seem to be frosted over. The doors separating room A from room B are two sliding barn doors, and they open slowly. The flat track runs smoothly. One need be careful that the bottom doesn’t run out; a tricky maneuver like guiding meat along a shackling chain.
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Maybe I was dreaming before the service, the earlier sitting
for a wake still in my mind. All of the guests (very Catholic)
would not weep from their seats. They were just “Amen”-ing
under their breaths, undulating with their fans, and sick
with the urge to leave the room, with a quick
gesture of hands on hearts, chests held tight.

When I was eight I used to imagine each blade of grass in my grandmother’s backyard was a skyscraper, and her lawn an endless city. I’d go out of my way to find tiny barren patches in the lawn and give them names similar to Central Park—Park Central, City Center Park, Middle Park, or whatever. There were numerous “Central Parks” in my city. I’d imagine the city’s population to be well over a billion. And each yard on the block was another city, each with its own untold billions. But my city was easily one hundred New York Cities combined, thus deserving however many parks it wanted.