Long Drive Through the Woods
by Dolo Diaz
I picked you up Sunday morning, only five days after it happened. We hugged, gently swaying for a long time. You were busy with things, bags to carry, directions to follow, schedules to meet. You had been hijacked by your mind, and I drove the kidnapper, but the hostage would peek from underneath. And it would ask, what if, what if, what if I had done this or that or the other, and what do you think, and perhaps if I or the others had done this or that, or if the minutes could hit reverse and back up and stop at the exact moment, what if. The kidnapper would ask me for soup recipes and how to install a weather app and how to handle all the tasks. The hostage would look out in the distance, longing to be far away, longing to not make any more soup. We drove through the green woods under the tall pines. When we arrived, you could not get out of the car and face your waiting son. I stepped out and crouched next to the passenger seat and held your hands, soft like silk paper. You did things through the long, long day, and I drove back the two of you – kidnapper and hostage – again through the tall woods. The day closed its shutters, turned into a stormy night. I left you there, on the porch of that old house, waiting for someone to arrive. A few days later, the hour handle turned and clicked with a shiver of the clock. Time slowed down – and then stilled.
