Saturday, February 21, 2009

All I Can Write Are My Meanderings

I drive away from your house; it is late and I am tired. Good to see you. I look down at the fuel empty light and keep driving. There is a gas station that’s four cents a gallon cheaper further down the road. I am distracted by a phone call and wind up driving out of my way, into my old neighborhood. Just for kicks, I turn down my old road. It’s bumpy and gravelly, still torn up from construction on the highway. “My” apartment looks lived in.

I wind my way onto a different highway after filling up. The city lights are pretty and sparkling, and from this high point I can view the Arch.

I focus on my surroundings because in my heart are the sounds of some bleating refrain. I will not listen. “Whatever,” I say, “I don’t even care.” I’m so obviously miffed. I so obviously care. It wasn’t even what you did. It was what I feared it meant.

I put on some old music. Old music, old surroundings; what are you looking for, heart? What are you trying to reclaim? Is it something you lost, or was it something you were merely seeking? Nostalgia bends my memories like a prism; captures vague feelings and expands them into washes of color.

The night air is safe.