The morning was clear and bright. Sun filtered down through the pine trees, illuminating here and there the crisp yellow of a splintered trunk.
We spent the day doing various rural-ish sorts of things: driving from junkyard to junkyard looking for a new door for John’s old behemoth of a truck, which we would be driving into the city the next day (no luck); going to Wal-Mart; standing in an eternal line with countless Mississippians all printing photographs for their insurance companies of trees on their roofs or the foundations of their homes laid clean by storm surge. A big man with a big gut talked loudly, “You been through New Orleans? You can smell it from the highway. I drove past Jazzland, man, I could hardly breathe.”
That night I made a dinner of mashed potatoes, artichokes, and too-salty pork chops which we ate with plastic utensils. We went to bed early.