ann hudson
ways to travel Do you have the boarding passes? your father asks, his eyes flashing. Don’t argue. Pat your jacket pocket and explain you’ve got them right here, everything’s all set, and then ask him to take another bite of his apple slice which right now he is rubbing against the plate the way a man might rub a poker chip against the felt. Except this isn’t Vegas, and your father isn’t much of a gambler; even now his mind casts about for ways to make his world a little steadier— packing imaginary bags, arranging for transportation, deflecting risk. Do you have the boarding passes? he’ll ask again, ready to rebuke you for your inattention to the checklist which he runs through endlessly. His borders have been drawing in for years; the furthest he now travels is to the doctor; mostly he gets wheeled down to the pond each day to visit with the duck, and see the willow, and nod to joggers. In another day
31