Friends

today i remembered driving you home, on route 66 in the snow, both of us just kids, and the first time i'd ever driven in snow like that. it wasn't really very much snow, like today, but, like today, it was enough to cover the lane markings, turning the road a uniform and confusing white. like today, there were occasional gusts of wind, engulfing us in sparkling sheets of snow-blindness, cutting us off from the road and the white sky and the nervous drivers around us. we were laughing the whole way, with only an edge of hysteria - my hands were white knuckled on the wheel, but i was giggling like mad in between trying to locate the road. you laughed at the snow, and me, and the other panicking drivers.

and of course we made it there, and i made it back home, and the snow melted quickly, and in hindsight, it al seemed a little silly. such excitement over a few ephemeral inches! i've driven in real snow since then, snow that puts that little flurry to shame, just as, since then, i've dealt with so much that puts what i thought was important then to shame. today, i drove through the blowing snow without blinking, and drove through those other issues with barely a pause as well.

but i've got my first glass of whiskey in over a year sitting next to me, and i should be in bed but i'm not. and i don't know what i want - it's not you; it never was - but my mind appears to regard you as a reasonable stand-in for whatever it is. but i can't find it, and i can't even talk to you, so i'll sip my scotch and read my book against the backdrop of tso turned down low.

and eventually i'm going to forget all about that drive, and the laughter, and maybe even you.