My Memories Are A Big Rig

I am surrounded by metal and plastic and glass. I am hurled down the highway by the force of my own thoughts, my right foot heavy on the accelerator, my left foot lazy beneath the clutch. Memories are tailgating, clawing at the crooked bumper, undeterred by plumes of exhaust and potholes in this road. I am staring into the sun as it sets, the maples and birches and pines competing for attention (unruly siblings) in colorful swatches along my path. A crisp red brown leaf is stuck under a wiper. It flutters onto asphalt as I pull to a rumbling stop for a cup of coffee, to rub my eyes, to stretch cramped legs.
I am alone.
I am present: in the aches in my body and heaviness of my eyes. With the sight of bare branches above me framing the sliver of the moon rising above a tree-softened hillside. As a slight breeze reminds me of what is outside of my sequestering metal shell. I breathe in this moment of here. Light wells up from my core.

It is cold. I climb back into the car and am reassured by its gravelly mumbling and sighing as I shift gears and steer us onto the misty highway. A carcass of a moth clings to metal at the base of the windshield. Has it been there since Maine? Or did it crawl and heave and expire in the West Virginia night? I breathe into cupped hands and steer with my knees. When the car swerves towards the median I think better of this and lay my palms one at a time on the weak heater vent. I feign controlling my destiny. I glance in the rearview mirror, my eyes focused on what I think I see. The road is empty but the shadows of memories are still close behind.

My thoughts ignore the seasonal patterns, ignore the duck calls and seniors’ winter plans. My thoughts stream back up north despite my protestations. I want to leave the Maine in my head where it is. I want to let go of mussel shell beaches and striped buoys and gardens sidling up to the sea. I want to let the past slip under, let it float downstream and disappear beyond the bend. But the more I resist, the more it floods my head. The more I deny, the stronger the flow. I pull over to the side of the road and the past is upon me. It engulfs the car and I go under. I can do nothing but sit and cry, sit and write, sit and be. I am grateful for the baptism, my own well providing the blessing. For the rebirth of every moment.
All is still.
The night carries on.

I pull back onto the road and don’t bother to check my rearview mirror. I know that the memories are still there, that they may catch up to me once again, that another flood of emotions may pull me over. It is not about shaking the memories, eluding the past. It is realizing that every moment, action, feeling of love hate sadness passion has paved this road I am traveling upon. They are the composite foundation for every future moment, action, emotion.  I am grateful for the moon and stars reflecting on tar and sand.

I keep driving into the muted darkness and trust that this road will lead me home.

My compass is strong. But my belief that there is no wrong direction is (needs to be) stronger.