The poetry of delirium

 The poetry of delirium  

The return trip - our expulsion from Paradise, with the clothes on our backs, two medium-sized suitcases, and Uncle Albert 's steamer, and the way south and east, from snow on the ground to sixty degrees - is unclear to me, though I drove most of the way, if in a vehicle that knew where it was going and how to get there and mostly seemed to drive itself.
     It arrived, not entirely by itself, but assisted by a guy named Mike, who apparently owed Uncle Albert a favor, if one for which he was being paid. He had driven the five hours to Flint, rented the vehicle, and brought it back up. He was coming back early in the morning to help us load - his son would bring him and help with the trunk. Then he'd drive us back to Flint, and pick up his truck: he'd drive back to Paradise. We'd be on our way.

That seems to have been what happened. We went on our way.
     I remember the loading. I remember signing papers in Flint. We stopped that night in Ann Arbor - Uncle Albert gave the address to the car, and it told us how to get there.We stayed with a former student of his. I think her name may have been Julia, or April. A woman in her sixties, who called him Al-bare. They spoke entirely in French.

I'm not sure where we spent the next night, or the one after that, but we would eat breakfast, drive a few hours, head into a town to eat lunch; then drive a few hours more. We stayed with people Uncle Albert knew. Everyone spoke French - even at lunch. It was the third night after the first in Ann Arbor that we got home, I think. And a man named Dom came to pick up the vehicle. This was after two other men, Mike - though not the Mike from Paradise - and Gabe, were by to pick up Uncle Albert 's trunk; they put it in the back of a blue pick-up truck.
    Where they were taking it I don't know. I went to bed.

 03.11.17