SLICE OF LIFE

Saturday morning.

The alarm goes off at 3:30

And I think of the steeplechase day

Stretching long before me.

First a series of small hurdles.

Get son up

(ok, maybe not such a small hurdle)

Drive to airport.

Check in. Security. Train. Gate. Board.

Deplane in Phoenix.

Ground transportation.

Then a bigger hurdle.

Empty out son’s apartment.

Furniture.

Kitchen.

Bathroom.

Mattresses.

Clothes.

Dreams.

Load car.

Another hurdle.

Tire store.

The low pressure light is on

and I envision sitting for several hours

waiting for repairs.

I think this might be big

But it turns out to be nothing

Cars lose air in the hot desert climate

Tires just need to be periodically reinflated.

Phew.

And then the big hurdle.

Twelve hours in the car

Son's heart is broken.

Football

his first love

maybe his only love

has betrayed him.

I have lived with him long enough

to know that grief

usually disguises itself

as red hot anger.

I am not sure

I can get over this hurdle.

I picture crashing

flying headfirst

into a stone wall.

Do you want me to drive?

I ask.

NO.

I ask if he wants to listen to music.

No.

Book on tape?

No.

I offer to read aloud.

No.

He switches on the radio.

For five minutes.

Then switches it off.

“I don't want to listen to the radio.

I just want to talk.”

And he does.

For eight hours straight

But not the good kind of talk.

Not heart talk.

Not stories.

Not healing.

Not laughter.

Instead he rages

It seems I have many shortcomings.

As a teacher.

A mother.

A Christian.

I am the reason he has not been successful in Phoenix. 

Flagstaff.

Winslow.

Gallup.

The hurdles

and the running commentary

keep coming. 

I stop him once or twice.

Tell him that he is being unkind.

But mostly I am quiet.

Sometimes there are no words.

I am hungry

but he does not want food.

We switch drivers.

The tirade continues.

Albuquerque.

Santa Fe.

Las Vegas.

We are both exhausted.

And stop for the night.

He still does not want to eat

and we both go to sleep hungry.

Sunday morning

I eat breakfast alone

in the hotel lobby.

Brace myself for another day.

He wants me to drive.

No, wait, he wants to drive.

I can drive after we get gas.

No. He is going to drive the whole way.

He wants to get there and I drive too slow.

He forgets his wallet.

And races back across the hotel parking lot.

Forgets his glasses

And races into the hotel again.

I am prepared for four more hours

in the furnace of his anger

but he is mostly silent.

Flying down the highway

at speeds that leave me

looking in the rearview mirror

for flashing lights.

For three more hours

he says nothing

I read 

and watch 

as New Mexico mountains 

flatten

into prairies of Southern Colorado.

Raton.

Trinidad.

Walsenberg.

Pueblo.

Colorado Springs

and then the anger spews forth again.

This eruption is brief

one hot flash

and then over.

He is silent until we get to Denver.

Explodes again

as I attempt to navigate

us through the maze of freeways

leading to the airport.

How many exits?

Exactly how many?

Are you sure?

Did you have to take the longest way?

I know which lane I have to be in.

You don’t have to tell me.

I am silent

as he drops me off in front of the airport.

I have crossed the finish line.

And I am still on the horse.

That is its own small victory.

I guess.