A River in Georgia

I set out to walk to the river crossing, an activity akin to running a finger over a scab & wanting to peel it to see whether the wound underneath has healed. The black lab races back & forth across the driveway. Beyond the dog I see a white pickup attached to a trailer loaded with large equipment. A man with a gray beard & ponytail sets down side-by-side metal ramps. On the trailer sit two large black motorcycles, a Harley & a BMW Beretta, both with fat rear tires, the Beretta’s rear fender short & high. The man may have heard my “Hey, nice bikes,” but he doesn’t respond. Tall, lean, dungareed, at least sixty, maybe a decade more. Bob walks down from the house with his pug Fancy, a double handful of curiosity. Bob has the face of a mild-mannered dealer, man of a thousand schemes, including a red barn he plans to turn into a fish camp, home to a dozen bicycles, stacks of building material, a hundred-year-old long-legged gas stove, rolls of insulation visible through an upstairs window. Lashed to a shed rail a traffic light shines green. Stolen street signs stand or lie about — caution watch for children, road closed ahead. Together Bob & the man he calls Vic unlash & unload the motorcycles, a gift from Bob’s wife’s ex-husband to his sons because the ex-husband is returning to Russia after thirty years in the US. “To be with family,” he claims. The Harley barely runs & nearly bottoms out in the mud next to the driveway. Vic drives the BMW down the driveway a stretch before turning back & parking it next to the Harley on a sheet of T1-11 inside the carport attached to the barn. To make room for the bikes Bob & I shift onto the lawn sinks, lumber, deck chairs, & a large beatup desk with two holes as if for umbrellas. Boxes & totes we push into a framed room plumbed with bathroom fixtures plus a hot water heater but without walls. Bob slides open the barn door to reveal an interior filled with old furniture. “This all has to go,” he says. “Then I’ll put down bunks, he points to a plywood counter, “kitchen here,” points again, “bathroom door. “Yeah, I’ll help you,” Vic says. While they load a 1970s turquoise VW Beetle onto the trailer, I continue down to the river crossing, a concrete slab under two to four inches of rushing water. Water I’d driven through to get here, water I’d drive through to get out. Walking back I look more closely at the VW. “That’s cherry,” I say. Bob looks puzzled even when I repeat it. Vic winces after reaching with a strap under the car to lash it down. “My back,” he says, bending forward, sideways, then back, “kinda worn out.”