WORMS 4 SALE
Posted: Sat Apr 26, 2008 8:12 am
It was summer, I know that. We had the windows
down, and I can feel the breeze curling around my
legs even now, like a time anchored scent, like it
was yesterday.
At a sunday's pace we crested Spruce Hill and glided
through a cloud of shimmering heat into the land below.
Descending, you can glimpse the ocean. Together, we
tasted the salty air and swayed like seaweed, if only in
our minds. We weren't going there. Or at least we never.
But where? Was there a destination or did we simply
slide along? I don't remember now, but we grabbed the
afternoon and drove, I know that. And each time we slowed
to take in a lawn with character or some such atrocity, the
normal drone of the tires became more of a sticky hiss. I
remember that.
Heat. Heat and open windows. A passenger. All essential
ingredients for gooey tires.
There was a sharp turn on some back road, and a persistent
memory. It was the perfect moment, just like they write about.
A short string of seconds bound together in one experience
and frozen in time. You gasped, your role fulfilled, and I touched
the brakes, doing my part. As we hit the turn I noticed a small
plywood sign. It was nailed to a pole, painted white and not as
square as it should be. In an unsteady hand was scrawled:
WORMS 4 SALE --->
I loved you then, more than even Maslow could define. Beyond
that I cannot say.
I never drove again. Never had another passenger. Moved half a
country away. Mine is a world of closed windows and cabfare
now, of tall buildings far away from the ocean.
When I get in they ask me, where? I tell them to take these old
bones where two lines intersect. Somewhere.
down, and I can feel the breeze curling around my
legs even now, like a time anchored scent, like it
was yesterday.
At a sunday's pace we crested Spruce Hill and glided
through a cloud of shimmering heat into the land below.
Descending, you can glimpse the ocean. Together, we
tasted the salty air and swayed like seaweed, if only in
our minds. We weren't going there. Or at least we never.
But where? Was there a destination or did we simply
slide along? I don't remember now, but we grabbed the
afternoon and drove, I know that. And each time we slowed
to take in a lawn with character or some such atrocity, the
normal drone of the tires became more of a sticky hiss. I
remember that.
Heat. Heat and open windows. A passenger. All essential
ingredients for gooey tires.
There was a sharp turn on some back road, and a persistent
memory. It was the perfect moment, just like they write about.
A short string of seconds bound together in one experience
and frozen in time. You gasped, your role fulfilled, and I touched
the brakes, doing my part. As we hit the turn I noticed a small
plywood sign. It was nailed to a pole, painted white and not as
square as it should be. In an unsteady hand was scrawled:
WORMS 4 SALE --->
I loved you then, more than even Maslow could define. Beyond
that I cannot say.
I never drove again. Never had another passenger. Moved half a
country away. Mine is a world of closed windows and cabfare
now, of tall buildings far away from the ocean.
When I get in they ask me, where? I tell them to take these old
bones where two lines intersect. Somewhere.