Issue 40, Winter-Spring 1967
From far down the long, flat road the bus comes. “Wichita” it says in white letters, and it has come from Denver, from Salt Lake, from San Francisco, and the girl. Lee, has come just that far herself, riding two days and nights out to this western Kansas prairie to see her grandfather for the last time. He is an old man now, no longer the hard old dandy who panned gold in Alaska, but a frail and slightly senile version of that self, and this vacation she senses somehow will mark their last visit. All evening her mind has dwelled on death while her hands folded and unfolded her grandfather’s last letter. But now, exhausted of tears and feeling, she only stares vacantly out the window. There the moon shines full, and it is a nice night, a summer night, where the air hovers still, and the dark is only a soft haze above and beyond the moon as though it were not really night at all, but the day fixed in a soundless, empty eternity.