Every day, the Fletcher family would drive past in their Reliant station wagon. Mr. Fletcher in the front seat, along with Johnny, who was confined to a wheelchair and needed to ride shotgun. In the back would be Mrs. Fletcher, probably smoking a cigarette. Possibly yelling at Fletch, as we called Mr. Fletcher. At some point, Mrs. Fletcher took ill, a result of smoking. When the news reached me, I was sad. She was not a nice old lady, and I was scared of her, but I knew she'd had it kind of rough having to deal with a son who was disabled.
A few days after learning of Mrs. Fletcher's death, I was standing in my front yard, playing catch with myself as I tended to do. Popups in the air. Not a worry in the world. The gray Reliant pulled out of the Fletcher driveway. Mr. Fletcher was driving. He looked sad. Johnny was in the passenger seat. He looked like he always did. Mrs. Fletcher sat in the backseat, as usual. I knew she was dead, but there she was. And maybe this one time, she waved and smiled at me. I can't be sure, since I ran right in the house and asked my mom if Mrs. Fletcher was, in fact, dead.
She was, and the funeral was that day, so I suppose it was one last family ride together that I saw.