Where You Go

Close to midnight and the streets in the little town are empty. Monday night, family night, no one would be out, every street light is green until the mouth of the canyon. A half moon disappears behind looming mountain peaks; they are invisible in blackness, but I know they must be there because they always have been. A few miles in, when the few lights of the valley disappear, the ridges reappear, dark grey contours against a blacker sky, a loud silence that appears when the radio frequencies no longer can. I turn up the static, set my sights on the lights at the dam, and I push a little harder on the gas.

I saw in your words something that broke my heart and I cannot listen to them again, I'm sorry. I know the view; I've looked in through that window and I just don't think I can open it again. It may be better to swallow hard, order another beer, pretend the mistake won't be made again.

Third time's a charm.

We don't know anything of what lies ahead, though.