musée

magic, the way the backseat bench can never quite hear what the front cab is saying.
we were packed into the car like sardines
fivefriendssuitcasesbackpackspurses
snacks held out, passed around, remnants scattered between us.
but i heard you
even on the diagonal
my knees propped against the drivers seat back
chuckling softly “we’re really livin’ now, eh?”

felt you say it, more like,
same as the hush that falls when all the windows are rolled down.
never came up with a new term for that, did we?
what a legacy
those Oldsmobile knobs
hitching, always in the same two places, against the strain of leather siding
as if they actually coiled glass onto itself.
magic,
if you let yourself believe.

“sure seems that way” i said, distracted,
imagining the windows rolling so far the car transformed into a topless Wrangler;
the wind whipped wash of calm,
the inextricable undercurrent of terror.
the sudden awareness of how fast you are moving,
of how little there is to protect you;
the hesitant trust placed in every passing stranger,
the blanket of zen, however meager, that no matter what so much is outside of your control.

“oh shit! got it back!”
the satellite gods had finally found us weaving between the mountains,
rained their manna, databytes, reassurance we’d survive.

curiosity my well documented master, i pulled myself up
wrapped my arms around the driver headrest.
together we watched the map reload on the center console,
some fortunetelling talisman with a modern mouthpiece,
“for-ty – min-utes – to – des-tin-a-tion”

“oh. we’re halfway there.”
i met your rueful smile with a nose scrunch, my lips sealed against the crook of my right arm, longing suddenly
acutely
for the uncertainty of the last half hour;
the disorientation of feeling lost in varying degrees
already logged nostalgically as some mad adventure.

my chin rested atop my elbow now.
“yeah, forty more.
and even that’ll take some luck.”