By Don DussaultApril 17, 2017
Every day I flash on scenes and sounds of Fallujah. There are ways of grounding them. Every Saturday evening I put on my best jacket and roll out to my car and fold the wheelchair and place it on the backseat and get behind the wheel and the hand controls and drive five miles out of my small town to the dance hall on the lake. When I roll up to the front double doors and pull out my billfold, the cashier won't let me pay. I park along the wall at the back, and neighbors and high school friends come over and talk with me. They update me on what's happening with them and folks we know, and they tell me the latest jokes and we talk baseball or football until I remind them they came here to dance and make out. I listen to the music and watch people dancing and after an hour, not to be a downer, I roll out the back door to the boardwalk and look at the black lake and the zillions of stars for a while and hope I'll see a shooting star and then I roll back to the parking lot and drive home feeling pretty good, most Saturday nights.
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