Monday, June 3, 2013


For some, driving is therapy. In high school and junior college I drove countless miles to nowhere. Usually, a mood provoked the drive. Something happened that upset me or I was just feeling down in general. Something about being behind the wheel worked magic on me. I'd turn the radio (or whatever cassette suited my fancy) up and explore the outskirts of town, sometimes at the wee hours of the morning. It was the night that drew me most often, when most people were tucked into their respective beds, dead to the world. Night has always drawn me. It's the solitude, but it has always needed to be solitude with the illusion of protection. My car was my protection on those drives. The doors locked, windows cracked, and a healthy common sense, I was mostly safe.

This afternoon, I was upset, and for the first time in many years I took to the road for comfort. I had a sleepy dog, a sleepy child and an hour to spare. My route circumvented the city--not nearly the haphazard route of my youth driving adventures, but still just enough time and solitude to put events into perspective. Our pup nodded off immediately, having just been on a long walk. D's head bobbed and weaved until the Sandman took the TKO.

But this time, I had the radio off. The quiet snores from the back seat were music enough to me.

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