MISSING. Kevin Don Porter

name. Tradewind, South Wind, Western Wind, Crosswinds. I was just waiting for one to drive by that said Break Wind. Long, smooth campers with wide windshields and older white couples in the front seats. Where were they headed? Probably some fancy lake house. Their vacation home passed down from his father.

      They have three children, two boys and a girl. The oldest son, probably some fancy business type flying in from New York for the weekend. The daughter, maybe a wanna-be actress coming in from Los Angeles. No significant others yet, no grandkids, both of them are too busy for that. The youngest son, blasting rock music in his ear buds to drown ‘em all out. Wishing he was back home with his friends. They’ll sit around the dining room table. The oldest son’ll talk about all the tough business deals he made out on the golf course with clients. The daughter, waiting on the call from her agent about the part that would put her on the map. The wife, whining about the husband eating too much mashed potatoes and gravy and not losing the forty pounds the doctor suggested. At least she had gotten him to cut back on the smoking, which was why his appetite had picked up so much. How would she manage this weekend without their housekeeper, Anna, to straighten-up behind them? The husband, thinking about that stock he should’ve sold before he left, not wanting to lose a penny. Their dog, Biscuit, waiting at their feet, tail wagging, hoping for a scrap from the table. The perfect lives.

      Some people were so lucky. They had it all. When I asked adults why life treated people so differently they always threw some old saying at me. People love their sayings. Stuff like: “It’s the little things that matter.” That’s ‘cause they don’t have answers for the big things. It doesn’t matter why I like the smell of gas, I just do. Or the scent of carbon copy paper and dry erase markers. Ice cubes in my cereal milk. Peanut butter and syrup when there’s no jelly. Sitting on the toilet after a good number two.

      No little thing ever explained why, when I feel my hair blowing in the wind, I’m mad when I wake up. Back to the real world. And I thought nightmares only happened with your eyes closed. No little thing ever explained why when I sit still, so still that I don’t feel myself anymore – almost like I floated out of my body – that I’m disappointed when it’s still these hands that move. These legs. These same eyes. Still me. I sit and think about stuff like that. Not gonna change nothing though. How does the saying go? No use crying over spilled milk?

      There were only a couple things in life that I knew for sure. One was that, at the movies, you had between thirteen to fifteen minutes of previews during which you usually eat up all your snacks and feel forced to buy more. The other is that the tiny brown thing in your eye, that you see when you stare into the sun or at a bright light, will always escape when you try to chase it. It will always zip away from view, daring you to try again.

      “Darn, slow down!” Grandma Edith yanked me out of my daydream. She was sounding-off again.

      Dad glanced up into the rearview mirror, the little veins in his temples bulging. He didn’t say anything though. After a couple minutes he slowed down. A little. “Where y’all wanna eat?” he asked. We had just passed one of those signs that show you all the good eating places at the next exit.

      Cybil said, “Oh, they have a Burger King. Let’s stop there.”