For the Weekend or the Winter...

I Think I Lived a Year Today

In the brochures, back when you took the time to read the brochures, they talked about the different climates, different zones you pass through.

A hundred years ago, it would take months to travel through those zones. Every yard hard-earned, not with money, but with sweat and blood, animals and death.

Today, it's quicker. Today, it's literally a day.

You think this when you leave Oklahoma. And again when the sun goes down, 300 miles away.

Driving all night, not wanting to talk, not wanting to wake her.

Through the forests. Climbing into the mountains. Into the snow.

Past where the other cars go, on a winding road up to a mesa. You glance over to her, wondering if she remembers the brochure about the mesa.

But you don't want to ask, don't risk waking her.

So you drive. Until the muscles of your leg cramp. Until you need to stretch your arms after a dozen hours at 10 and 2.

The only lights are the lights from the stars. And the only sounds are the wheels on the snow.

And as the snow falls harder and harder, you can hear it in its silence as it lands on your windshield.

The snow is only knowable in its absence. Just like your car is only notable by the absence of other cars. And maybe the two of you are only knowable by not quite being there.

And when you pass into the high desert and the sun peaks over the horizon behind you, you know you're not in Oklahoma anymore. Maybe you'll never be in Oklahoma again.

You hear her yawn and you turn to her. And she stretches and smiles for you.

"In another life," she says.

And you stop the car. And you both watch the sun come up as several deer cross in front of you.

And you know exactly what she means. But have no idea how to get there.