Farewell, Old Friend

The snow is furious and my headlights are blinded by the downpour. The cabin of my car hasn’t warmed up yet; the motor is running and a slight vibration is felt through the white knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

 

I can’t help but be mesmerized by the white coming down.

 

The concrete outside looks slick and squishy and slippery. It won’t stick; it never sticks for long. On each exhale the danger of losing control of it threatens me to shaking; my lips quivering and teetering on the edge.

 

I fight it now as I always have, maybe always will.

 

It finds ways to make itself known, to make itself last. I wish I could say I’ve just begun, wish I could say these 4 doors and wheels feel like home to me. I peer through the veil of snow, pull back the curtain on the bank robbery happenning across the street.

 

Their broken backs make them shiver in the cold.

 

At least all the chaos keeps me alive; at least the dreams haven’t faded out, blended in with the blanket of snow dumped all over the roof. At least I can still peer through the cracked glass and sheets of white.

 

The photographs taken from this special occasion have persuaded me.

 

©Ramon Sturdivant

 

 

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