67
It’s a mysterious time.
There are no definitive answers to anything.
We are uprooting our flag for a while.
Prince is in the back of the Saturn lighting a joint and looking out the cracked window through his black sunglasses as I’m speeding west and gaining momentum, donning one of my father’s old flannels, shaved and clean.
There’s a light behind my eyes that I can feel.
My heartbeat has worked its way up to my mind, the whole instrument is aligned.
Springsteen is playing and Rose is sitting to my right, humming along.
In the rearview mirror I can see our various bags stacked on top of one another, Rose’s guitar among them.
She has this black cloth-coat wrapped around her shoulders and her right knee is bouncing up and down electrically.
I reach over and move my fingers through her freshly washed hair.
The feel of endless silk.
I briefly massaged the back of her head.
There is no part of life I have loved, no part I have wanted more than her.
I am convinced that I can lose all else but if she remains, I can walk it on forward and continue.
All three of us are peaceful.
We’re an hour or so in and we have settled calmly into the journey.
As is with all road trips the initial buzz always calms into serenity.
My imagination, as well as theirs, is traveling too.
I am filled with the future, the potential of an open road.
Before leaving, in my driveway, we hugged Leon and Mo and said our goodbyes as Mo cried.
Leon, my brother, I will see you again.
Woodland Drive sent me straight out of Johnston.
All vast America is turning under my fingertips. The unknown awaits us out there in the desert. Will we last a week or a year? What will we find? I think of all the promises I’ve heard about the exciting life out there in the wide open, the biggest skies in the world.
Of course, I think most about Johnson and pray it’ll flourish in my absence. I want to return to it blooming and renewed. I have faith that I will, whenever that may be. It isn’t so hard to believe.
Whenever I’m on the brink of a big change in my life, I can’t help but be a little melancholy. I am filled with a thick, heavy, nostalgia.
That’s the thing about me, I am always trying to preserve things. If I ever stumbled my way into something pure, good, and precious, I would shake at the thought of leaving it behind, or it leaving me.
I was in constant effort to grab it up in my careful hands and run away with it into the wilderness forever where we could live safe and happy together for the rest of our days.
To set free what we love, what an art.
If I could only bottle it all up and freeze it.
If only we were eternal.
I suppose, in a way, that’s what I really want.
We take everything with us.
We all do it unconsciously or consciously, and sometimes we can hang on too tight.
There exists such a thing.
I cannot wring out all the beauty of life.
It will stay with me willingly if I let it, if I trust its faithful nature, and that’s the truth about everything.
It is in the air around us as we pass through the country.
It is in the wind, in the trees, in the rain.
There are spirits all around.
Everyone who has gone before and is still going strong, they’re guiding the way.
And it becomes clear to me that when something imprints upon you, it is there for all-time.
We carry things on.
We are gathering up and continuing.
So we feel every ancestor.
And it’s impossible to hold anything still.
They will all come and go, these blessings.
They will all be replaced and renewed.
Like the fields of corn falling dead to the snow.
Like a loyal lover, they too, will come back.
Different and more beautiful still.
Well, that’s the thing, this rebirth. The unbelievable chance at new beginnings. Each more impassioned than the ones before. We are growing taller all the time. We are becoming limitless. We are accepting the things we deserve. The universe is conspiring for us all and it is a practice to accept it, to love every waking second. I know now more than ever that no feeling is bad, no memory so defined. It is all just the sensation of living.
Well, it’s something like that anyway.
All to say I will embrace this beginning again, holding fast to my faith in the bright future. No matter how wonderful or terrible the past, what is ahead will be special. It will be the way. This is the thing. This is hope.
I am leaning up against the Saturn at a gas station in Waterloo. There’s slush gathered next to the concrete slab which holds the pump up from the ground. I move it around with my foot. Prince is fast asleep in the back seat and Rose is inside the station. There isn’t a single car around.
The winter has settled itself solid into the blood of the entire Midwest now. It has a stronger bite by the day. I don’t mind. I can feel my face growing warmer and harsh against the wind, revitalized. And the numbers on the dial move higher.
I hear the gas station bell ring quiet but sharp in the distance and Rose strides through the ancient metal doors. I notice how she has her Ninja Turtles shirt on beneath her sweater and jacket. She wears this wonderful smile on her face as the wind swirls all around her like a cinematic star. She walks towards me with that transcendent alignment. That cosmic balance, always.
“Freeze.” She says as she comes closer.
“You know you were wearing that Ninja Turtle shirt the first night I saw you?”
She looks down and tugs a bit at its collar.
“This old thing?”
“Yeah, that old thing.”
“That’s funny,” she says as she walks around to the passenger door. She gets fake serious for a second and whispers.
“It’s a sign Cash, a beautiful sign.” She giggles and takes shelter in the car.
I look up to the sky and try to see if any sunlight will be breaking through today. It doesn’t seem so. Just another cloudy winter afternoon in the middle of nowhere America. If I didn’t know any better I’d tell you God is speaking in the wind. I’d tell you He is speaking all the time, in everything. He’s been sailing the ship all along, in no hurry.
How are you fairing up there, Holy Father? Is there anything pressing that you’d like to share? I wait, looking around as I always have, for an obvious sign. Well, there is none to be seen. That’s just fine with me. The numbers on the dial click to a stop. I pull the nozzle out and hang it up. I lock the tank.
I grab the ice-cold Saturn handle and move on.