Metaphysical

What led me there, I don’t know, though I like to imagine my mother, unencumbered by the body, watching me. All I’d wanted was to drive, to go it didn’t matter where. How the car shook, expectant, over sixty. How the lit-end, when I smoked, shone in the windshield at night. I’d wanted problems like those we’d had as children. And if we’ll stick with what’s difficult, I’d wanted to be that, too. I’d wanted all my greedy heart could name to be all there, always, all for me. There was the moment of doubt, when I knew nothing I wanted would come to me. That I’d grip the wheel and go, but in fear and clung-to with sweat and anger. That anyplace I’d needed to be— the hills, calm and lush that time of year, the houses, still and distant, like a picture— would go past, and go past like handfuls of something dropped. So when I reached the tiny road, pitch but for my brights, without a sound or glimpse but only the sense of deep waters on either side; and when as if in warning the horizon went pink in the distance—like during fire or snow, like the light we enter this world by— I felt like some errant Moses, with no better sense than to turn and go when God, in bush form, flamed and spoke.