EAT YOUR HOTDOG
The thing about it is this: your son will be barking at you to eat your hotdog. You'll be telling the familiar story about how your daddy bought his first Model A without really knowing how to work it. You were sixteen and within days had taught yourself to drive it. Daddy who'd spent his career conducting for the CTA, retired with a pin of diamonds and gold. Plus the lungsful of coal tar that killed him. One of the diamonds is now imbedded in your grandson's ear. And your son is standing in the doorway from the kitchen glaring at you, his tongue like an arrow, "Mother. Why don't you eat your hotdog?"
You're in your eighties but you still get around. You still got your big green car out of the garage up until a few years ago. Now your son drives you. You visit the beautician once a week, the morning the team of foreign maids invade the house to pretend to clean. The trips to the church have dropped to exactly that often. Otherwise, all your old friends are dead. Just yesterday forever your husband fell down a long stairs of small strokes. The nice young man who moved in next door shuffles around his back yard looking for a heart attack. But you still get around. You sit up in bed watching the nonsense on t.v. until long past when it used to go off the air before cable. You don't care if you don't make it downstairs until ten or eleven, and then still in your nightclothes. That, and there'll be your son, telling you to eat your hotdog.
The front door will open, and then the livingroom will be filled with your grandson and his wife, the photos of a great-grandson come to life.
"Just look at him," you'll greet every silence, "he sure is busy, isn't he?"
Then you'll wonder aloud again, "Is anybody hungry? Would you like something to eat?"
"No, no. We're fine."
After watching the little one awhile more you'll ask again.
"Please don't go to any bother."
Eventually it will transpire that there's nothing in the house to eat though surely there is, and your son will pop out to bring in some lunch and not return for hours.
You taught yourself to drive when you were sixteen.
"Is anybody hungry? Would you like something to eat?"
"I think we need nothing more."
"If I eat all this sandwich I'll die, not to mention the fries."
"It's delicious, Grandma. How's your hotdog? Have you had a bite yet?"
You'll smile, presiding at the end of the table. Your daddy and the first car. The little one and how busy. Make sure no one's hungry. That withered thing on a plate under your chin. You had a husband. Now your son snaps, "That's what you told me to get you! Mother, will you please make an attempt to eat your hotdog."
You'll look down at it askance, astonished. The sight will be shriveled and distasteful.
Back in the livingroom you'll repeat, "Is anybody hungry? Would you like something to eat?"
"Oh no, we're overfine now."
And soon the company will be gone, forgotten and confused.
You figured out the gearbox, and like a miracle, the hotdog will have disappeared.