By Jennifer Browne
Nitro, West Virginia, my grandmotherland. Trump flags dot the vacant space around this station. “I need gas,” a man’s sign says. In the open hatch of his car, two children and their mother sit beside a plastic jerry can, a symbol transcending language. They’ve been here two hours, waiting.
The father won’t look at me, sits in the passenger seat; his wife and daughters stand outside as I lock the nozzle lever, fill the tank. A heaviness—the mother’s lean body just starting to show, another child. Our two plates the only out-of-states. The Armenian flag dangles from their rear view.
And when I click the gas cap closed, the children lift their hands, serious as priests, say, “God bless you.”
I’ve been a guest in homes where the children stand before adults in the evening, ask, “Bendición?” I was told to reply, “Dios te bendiga.” Who was I to offer any blessing?
Somewhere farther down the road, I imagine these children settling into sleep, their parents down to their last dollars. Who knows what sign they saw that said I needed something holy, something I don’t believe in, but two children, they gave two blessings. We need. Let me place a valuable thing into your hands.
Jennifer Browne falls in love easily with other people’s dogs. She is the author of American Crow (Beltway Editions) and the poetry chapbooks Before: After, In a Period of Absence, a Lake, whisper song, and The Salt of the Geologic World. Find more of her work at linktr.ee/jenniferabrowne.
Image by Connor Scott McManus courtesy of Pexels
beautiful powerful stuff.
This story breaks my heart especially in light of how Trump and his family grift billions of dollars and cut millions from innocent people. It’s hard to believe as America celebrates or 250the anniversary this is where we are.
Dawn, thank you.
Oh my heart. Your images stay with me.
Barbara, I haven’t been able to shake those kiddos, myself.
A gem. Thank you.
Judy, thank you. What a kindness.
Beautiful.
Thank you, Jennifer! Gorgeous. I love the father not looking at the narrator, the click of the gas cap, the children serious as priests, the unseen sign, “I need something holy”. I was touched by the gifting–both ways.
Janet, thank you for these words, which are their own gift.
So much power and weight in so few words. Brilliant.
Patricia, thank you.
Wow!
Gorgeously rendered in language and details. The father who won’t look at you. The ‘grandmotherland.’ The “Who knows what sign they saw that said I needed something holy,…” line resonates so far past the day to day moment.
Sarah, thank you for sitting with this little essay.
Powerful. Thank you for sharing.
Vana, thank you.
Powerful.