MICROSTORIES AND POETICS  BY  ARTHUR BRUZZONE

A B O U T
C O N T A C T
H O M E
P R O F I L E

Last Drive

She always descended the back stairs, backwards. This was the only way she could maneuver them. She left a cane at the top of the stairs, another at the bottom.

She grabbed the cane at the bottom of the stairs, and moved through the garage, past her deceased husband’s small office. She passed her car and stopped.  

She wanted to drive again. She couldn’t since her recent illness. Her feet were slightly numb. Her eyesight was worse.

She knew she couldn’t get the car out of the garage.

Still, she decided to get in and warm up the engine -- to keep it in good condition, she told herself.  

She pulled herself into the seat, using the steering wheel as an anchor, and turned on the engine. The sound was strong. She adjusted the rear view mirror. She looked down towards the seat. All was she had left it. The garage door opener, taped together, two bulk mail letters unopened. A crumpled discarded tissue.

Then she turned off the engine.

The visions of her imagination --- turning corners, moving steadily down the freeway, visiting her daughter, shopping on Fridays --- were quickly extinguished by the tears running down her face.