Camille Rogers

Green Chevy, you bastard. Rolling wheels off-kilter, rest of the body moving faster than you could. It’s time to drive to the cemetery. Grandpa plants trees there, Chevy. For all the soil-ridden bodies below. He plants trees there, Chevy. He’s been serving his whole life. I’ll sit on Grandpa’s lap and hold your wheel, too big for me even now. He plants trees there, Chevy. So we’ll put a hose in the back, and the dogs will come with us. Please don’t chug- chug and break down, you bastard. Your thunks make me nervous. Grandpa doesn’t listen to your radio. That kicked out a while ago. Blooming dirt from the road upped by your wheels. “Just look up,” he says, and I do. We have to pull the hose out of the back. Why won’t your back panel open, Chevy? Have to water the trees. You must have laughed, Chevy. A man and his 10-year-old granddaughter, watering trees for no one. This cemetery needs magnification. “Take care of things even when it seems mundane,” he says. When you’re mine, Green Chevy, I’ll take care of you. …