rattle snake rattle er

today today today i get to borrow my dad's tremendous red work truck, the one he built for my brother when my brother was young. the truck my brother wanted red the one he wanted with big tires, the one he did not want anymore. today, even if it is raining, even if it is ridiculously windy like it is right now, i get to load a pallet of slate tile into the truck bed. with all of the brown recluse spiders and all the snakes, in this strange place where my cousin lives. where he has always lived this old wood-frame house that appears to be falling in on itself, with a yard full of the best parts, the best broken parts, of oz. things like the tops of bird baths and the legs of tables. all stone all covered in weed vines and moss. all very sad and sheltered. he has piecemeal parts of our childhood everywhere-- the old bridge that went over my great grandmother's koi pond, the mosaic tile table we used to play puzzles at. now everything is put out to pasture. everything is lonely, part crippled. and my cousin lives in the house alone, with my great grandmother's big antique stove and the skin of the 8 ft rattle snake my father skinned hanging on the wall.