The Big Chill
written by: Jamie Johnson
We are portals to other times,
brains like time machines,
experiences filmed and locked
away in a human vault made
of dendrites, axons and neurons.
Like that Halloween, at the drive-in,
in the bed of my dad’s Ford,
the one that we could only start
if I stood, tippy toes on bumper
holding the choke closed.
Watching the Big Chill;
rusty speaker hooked on the truck
like an iv pumping culture
up those steep hollers and in our veins.
I remember a passionate kiss on screen
Would I experience that?
I pushed my tongue
against my Ben Cooper mask
to simulate the romance.
In between scenes I watched
the town kids run between cars;
skater cuts and Vision Street Wear.
Wanting to be them I pulled my long hair
askew at the reflection in chrome.
But I was a farm kid, up before dawn,
many days like Laura Ingalls,
chased by chickens, knee deep in cricks;
an interloper at the city school.
“Tracks of My Tears” played
as dad embraced mom in the cab.
Years later, he’d use that same embrace
to guide her down the corridor to chemo.
My mind like a bingo cage
spins again, black 32
and back to present
as we pour her ashes over
her favorite spot at the beach.
Far away from the suffocating
hills that caged her most of her life.
The toil and harshness, never her thing.
She longed for the lives we watched
on that giant screen years ago.
- The Big Chill - April 24, 2025
- The Neighborhood - May 30, 2023
- The Wallflower - February 18, 2023
