Calvin runs his hand over the car top, closed hood, covered in frost, a stab
at each fingertip. Nineteen, Calvin washes his car evenings, cold or not,
then drives the blacktop suburban strips to school. Weekends, he drives
the long roads, the prairie roads, the roads of wheat, out west. His people had land
that’s now under water, under Lake Wilson, the salt lake, salt aquifer; no water
from that lake in to new crops. Grandma moved to Lucas, left the farm, lives
in town, two blocks from the Garden of Eden: “You know where I live?
I live right next door to the Garden of Eden. Up the way’s Paradise, and you go down
about a half a mile and you end up in Hell Crick.” Her story. Her sons wrap her
in strong arms, stand in wheat, Carhartts kicked up. In wind. Her last year. New wheat.
— Kevin Rabas