View from the Passenger Seat

This road seemed to go on forever. Stasis had settled onto my soul, like a barnacle in the damp wind, holding on. Gently – it wasn’t hurting me, actually, it was more like the grip of a frightened creature, happy to be safe in your arms. But, still, I felt heavy with it there. Not myself. Like a soft, slow rumble in the pit of my belly, just quietly churning to itself, without a refrain or a crescendo. Still, even with this affixed creature’s timid legs wrapped round me, I was on the road. Which is plenty better than a lighthearted jaunt inside my own head, with its strands of life reaching out from a centre that was unknown even to me.

It was just chilly enough to wrap my shoulders in a knit sweater. A fireplace alight, and enough to warm me over from the front passenger side. I did enjoy driving these sorts of highways; dress jacked up, happily exposing my left thigh, which I liked to keep flush with the wall of the driver’s side door, knee as high as I could muster. That, and the seat as far back as I could have it for the length of my legs, and additionally an extra slice of space for them to just feel relaxed. But me here in the passenger seat, snuggled in tight with the view ahead and to the side of me, was my absolute favourite place to be. The windows were open enough to barely expose the rain – falling unevenly in a soft cloud of mist, the windshield wipers set to a constant, slow setting- about 2 to 3 good seconds in between the slightly squeaky wipe across my vision. And the heat in the car on, almost to a low crawl, and present only enough to offer a similar light blanketing of my legs, which couldn’t be covered by the loose and airy knits of the sweater.

Normally, I’d be locked indoors at this late morning hour. Eyes blinding themselves from the endless white strain of light in front of them, sucking in a dead air which neither lived nor was ever destroyed, and sitting cross legged at a desk, which was always at my thoughts for its oddly placed proportions. The knee that crossed over my other knee would always graze the desk top, with just enough pressure to cause the slightest discomfort, but never enough to cause me to do anything about it. Nothing I could do, really, since lowering my chair any more meant that I would be far too close to the ground and too low to remain properly situated (i.e. blinded) by the white screen. Those basic pains were far from me, as I looked into the distance, to the steadily remaining clouds that stood vigil for this drive across the mountains and the doubtful, low ambition of the sun’s light, diffused by the morning rain and forever at a surrendering point in its pale golden shine with shadows of grey mocking all those who eventually crossed below its path.

There was a silence, of which I always enjoyed. One I learned to wield and shape to my will, from a very early age. They used to look at my mouth, with its mute voice as if tiny ropes were sewing a knit pattern of their own across and around it, not allowing me to speak. I felt very powerful after awhile, in that it was up to me, and no one else, to find my voice and I could give and take it from the world at my discretion. Did I have anything worth saying? I think countless hours fixated upon the conversations in my head allowed me some sense of planning, and poetry when I did open my mouth and part my lips to say something.

The dark grandmother, the one from the old country, was just like me my father used to tell me. I never met either of them, but she was the one I connected to more so. Turks most likely affected the looks of my father’s family through her as their focal point. Black eyes, black hair. Amber skin. And a voice that people waited to hear, because they knew if she was going to say something to you, it was special. It Had voice, and a worth. Not like those chatterboxes who wasted words like weeds, growing around the possibility of something worthwhile and unused. The Croatian words that her father said about her doesn’t translate very well, and sounds base and plain to say, but those who knew her remarked that she would not let you know what was “in her bag”, which in old fashioned village terms, meant something much more along the lines of the soul as a satchel, that which we carry with us on the journey and where we keep our treasures, our fast held ideas and beliefs, collected raindrops which formed a layer of mist upon us from within. Spending your best all at once left many people with those worn out, dull and confused looks on their face.

I still can clearly see the only photograph taken at my grandfather's funeral, when my father went back to visit.  There was contention between my father and his, but his mother saw him for who he really was.  And nothing in this world can compare to that connection.  In the photo, my father wept openly at the grave and later remarked that the only reason he cried at his father's funeral was because his mother's grave was also there, and he was reminded of her.  Her light, in that bag of hers...I had mine too. I think I got greedy and liked the powerful feeling of having the upper hand, and judging those worthy or unworthy of my voice.

But, still, I enjoyed the light fireflies let loose inside me, and was so happy to have this drive, smooth and trusted, before me, swaddled with the heat, the low din of bluegrass banjo and the silky fingers of the rainy wind to keep me fueled on this midday escape from the light which deadened me, the human eyes which stole from me, also refusing my overactive empathy that I longed to give to all those dull, bright faces, and the squeak of the impotent wood desk top which scraped my right thigh just enough to splinter my stories, from beneath me. I was warm, and wet (rain always turned me on more than sunshine), legs outstretched across the dashboard, safe in the level footstep steering its movement of the vehicle, and engendered by the natural light that guided my eyes down the road, a million new stories to tell, and nothing impeding them from doing so, with only the whispered feeling of Yes dancing down the rain.

~ M. Lucia