Home for Christmas, 1975
By Ron Kolm
It’s starting to snow. Nothing is sticking to the highway, but tiny wind-driven drifts scatter back and forth in front of the pickup truck as I drive to work. A winter storm has been predicted all day, but it hadn’t started yet when I pulled out of the driveway. I probably should have called in sick. I hate the damn job — night-shift on an assembly-line — which seems to be killing me in some way or another, but I need the money so I keep showing up and punching in, waiting for something to happen, an accident, anything — looking for a sign that I should quit and move on but not finding any.