Hawk Season Notebook #255
Your parents' one night... a San Francisco Market Street hotel named for George Bernard Shaw. An empty room... fresh white paint... a hard, narrow bed. Your mother, nineteen, professes distaste for Shaw, prefers Joyce and legends of Paris. Your father, twenty, from the northwest corner of Tennessee, likes Shaw, because they share the same first name. It is January 1944. A thrift bottle of bourbon. He takes off her sweater... folds it square... sets it on the seat of a wooden chair. Night of repetition: a rain-streaked window with flashing lights... the post-midnight rumble and steel grind of streetcars. Awake. Nothing much to say.