Death in the RV Park
Behind yellow ribbons roping off the street to my RV space, a man takes photos. The manager says, "The man in D-10 died. Circle around the back to your place."
I never met the man who died even though I walk my dogs by his motor home twice a day. It is innocuous among other RV's parked near me--the Allegro Bay with an enameled blue dolphin arcing on its side. A neighbor tells me the son is on his way from Florida.
Days later the road still radiates heat when I walk my dogs at twilight. Drapes are drawn back from the wide curved windshield of the motor home. Inside, the son scrubs the sink.
The next morning buckets, brushes, and bottles of cleaners sit on the patio. He gently polishes the outside of the vehicle with a chamois. The blue dolphin gleams. As I walk closer, he raises the hood.
"Have you got it about ready to move?" I ask.
"Yes, a mechanic checked it yesterday. Dad hadn't driven it in three and a half years."
I wonder when he last visited his father.
his father's belongings
in black trash bags