Driving In The RainDriving. It always seems that I’m driving. Maybe it’s just that while peacefully moving in a car, lulled by the sound of the of the engine, oblivious to the music from my stereo, unwittingly hypnotized by the swaying motion of the items dangling from the rearview mirror… Maybe, during moments like these, I find clarity.
Rain is present but instead of falling in droplets it is much thinner; it hangs lightly in the air, marginally too consistent to be a mist but lacking the desire to be more than a |
sprinkle. I set my wipers to their lowest interval, allowing tiny specs of rain to gather and congeal into serpentine rivulets -nearly obstructing my view- before being hurried away by the black rubber blades.
I daydream. I think of my grandmother, born in 1925. As a child she remembers hearing the grown-ups talk of the great dust storms out west… So great that clouds of black earth pushed thousands of miles from their birthplace… But she doesn’t recall seeing them personally. She remembers the name of her fifth grade teacher but she doesn’t recall what she had for lunch yesterday. I think of my own life and the seemingly innumerable adventures I’ve lived in my 37 years. I worry that the experiences comprising “me” will be forgotten when I’m gone. I imagine what it must feel like to be my grandmother.
Out of habit my left thumb caresses the inside of my left ring finger, just below the second knuckle. I imagine the feeling is something like an amputee, still unaccustomed to his leg being gone, as he reaches to massage the cramp in a calf which is no longer there. My thumb finds nothing but the tender inside of my finger; it almost tickles. But a wave of nausea immediately hits me like a punch to the stomach. My gut wrenches. I abruptly exhale. The sensation of tears welling up begins, but they never come.
I daydream. I think of my grandmother, born in 1925. As a child she remembers hearing the grown-ups talk of the great dust storms out west… So great that clouds of black earth pushed thousands of miles from their birthplace… But she doesn’t recall seeing them personally. She remembers the name of her fifth grade teacher but she doesn’t recall what she had for lunch yesterday. I think of my own life and the seemingly innumerable adventures I’ve lived in my 37 years. I worry that the experiences comprising “me” will be forgotten when I’m gone. I imagine what it must feel like to be my grandmother.
Out of habit my left thumb caresses the inside of my left ring finger, just below the second knuckle. I imagine the feeling is something like an amputee, still unaccustomed to his leg being gone, as he reaches to massage the cramp in a calf which is no longer there. My thumb finds nothing but the tender inside of my finger; it almost tickles. But a wave of nausea immediately hits me like a punch to the stomach. My gut wrenches. I abruptly exhale. The sensation of tears welling up begins, but they never come.
My ring now hangs from a delicate chain dangling from my rearview mirror. Accompanying that small -but meaningful- sliver of titanium rests a pewter-colored disk bearing the image of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of miracles; patron saint of things lost. Funny how Catholicism condemns earlier religions for polytheism… When we have a saint to turn to for any given reason. There are Saints from which architects are urged to solicit help (St. Barbara & the Apostle Thomas). St. Agatha & St. Camillus de Lellis are said to aid nurses in their efforts. There’s even a patron saint for weapons dealers, St. Adrian of Nicomedia. The list is far more populated then the pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses. We hide behind the notion that we are praying to these patron saints so that they might ask God for help on our behalf. But, be honest… We like the idea of a specialist. And, well, considering the success rate we’ve observed when praying solely to God… I guess he’s busy. |
It’s almost noon but the sun stays hidden behind layers of blurry clouds and hazy precipitation. The air is aglow with ambient hues of grey. My car’s engine drones like a Gregorian monk’s long-winded, guttural chant. A familiar sight draws my attention to the low-lying section of grasses dividing the highway’s direction; it is a carcass. A deer’s body rests motionless to the left of the highway, stiff-legged and hair dampened from the morning’s weather. In all of the three seconds it takes to me to recognize it for what it is, stare at it as I pass, and notice the emptiness in its clouded -now lifeless- eyes, I imagine the texture of a living mammal. To touch a living, breathing, warm-blooded animal is a moment spent in reflection of all that is real. The flesh reminds us of what we are. The masquerades we perform from “9 to 5”, the conspiracies we whisper upon our pillow, the lies we pin to our souls in our desperate struggle to “belong”… These things all pale in comparison to the reality of Life.
I hold the image of that unfortunate deer in my mind for a moment. I remember the warmth and pliable texture of human skin. The feel of a loved one’s touch… Is so simple… But so forgiving… All absolving.
A frown twists downward across my face. My eyes squint. The balls of my cheeks flex and rise, partially visible from the slits I peek through. I imagine the feel of that deer’s body now that life has left it and it lies cold along the grasses. Its once flexible skin would be rigid and taunt. Its once limber legs would not bend. No child would ever again smile as they spied it grazing along the highway. No farmer would find its hoof prints along the edge of his field and take pride in his lands for their diversity that day.
I hold the image of that unfortunate deer in my mind for a moment. I remember the warmth and pliable texture of human skin. The feel of a loved one’s touch… Is so simple… But so forgiving… All absolving.
A frown twists downward across my face. My eyes squint. The balls of my cheeks flex and rise, partially visible from the slits I peek through. I imagine the feel of that deer’s body now that life has left it and it lies cold along the grasses. Its once flexible skin would be rigid and taunt. Its once limber legs would not bend. No child would ever again smile as they spied it grazing along the highway. No farmer would find its hoof prints along the edge of his field and take pride in his lands for their diversity that day.
Again, tears poke the backs of my eyelids… but they never come. I think of the ex-girlfriend I found lifeless upon my kitchen floor one night. Her once beautiful skin had lost its tenderness. Her lips would never again curl and involuntarily part as laughter escaped in clumsy arrangements of sound. I think of how I sat aside her room-temperature body, awaiting the paramedics I knew could only serve as a formality… I think of the fragility of life.
The CD in my stereo begins skipping and the sound is distracting. As I eject it from the player I wonder if the sound bothered my girls. Adjusting the rearview mirror I find my daughters still sleeping soundly in their car seats. The oldest, thumb-in-mouth, blankie-in-hand… The other, mildly smiling in her sleep, her body as limp |
as a rag doll. I smile while simultaneously pulling my lips in on each other. And I wonder what their lives will be.
Ladies and gentlemen, Happiness is a gift. The only promise Life ever keeps is the fact that there will always be hardship, suffering, and pain. We are going to lose everyone we love eventually. We are even going to lose ourselves. When Happiness comes to visit, welcome it with all of your heart. Treat it with as much appreciation and hospitality as you can. And hopefully… Maybe… It will visit more often… And maybe, stay a little longer each time. If I felt like praying today, although I really don’t, I’d pray for the awareness to recognize Happiness when it comes to visit. Because, unfortunately, I often fail to see it until it’s walking away.
Ladies and gentlemen, Happiness is a gift. The only promise Life ever keeps is the fact that there will always be hardship, suffering, and pain. We are going to lose everyone we love eventually. We are even going to lose ourselves. When Happiness comes to visit, welcome it with all of your heart. Treat it with as much appreciation and hospitality as you can. And hopefully… Maybe… It will visit more often… And maybe, stay a little longer each time. If I felt like praying today, although I really don’t, I’d pray for the awareness to recognize Happiness when it comes to visit. Because, unfortunately, I often fail to see it until it’s walking away.
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