Simply looking out the window isn't enough. She needs to be higher, so she drops the tailgate, picks her way around the bicycle and camp chairs stashed in the back and crawls up to the roof of the pickup.
There. The city spreads out below, finally visible above the tops of the trees. A cigarette burns in her hand, her eyes scan the sky above, a hint of wispy clouds visible in the sky, barely light from the late summer sun. The air is cool, laced with the sound of those songs playing against the hushing wind.
She takes a long drag off the cigarette and exhales slowly, time traveling. Countless hours spent in this spot. The windows were always closed then, the music loud enough to shake the windows and dampen her cries, screams, sobs, but little else. It never mattered how loud it was, how the bass reverberated through her body, it couldn't distract from the agonizing twists and tears. Screaming was really the only option in those moments when her soul was flying apart.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Come back.
She looks up and finds quiet in her insignificance under the sky.
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Periodic epiphanies and other less-than-profound musings from the North.
About Me
- MG
- I'm a mother and friend and daughter who sometimes moonlights as a writer, editor, designer, photographer and superflak. I'm a lousy bureaucrat and don't really know what it feels like to be middle-of-the-road about anything.
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