Lately I've been thinking about redwoods, and how in northern California you zig-zag through hundreds of them on narrow nighttime roads. When we were a couple of hours north of San Francisco, Phil drove our rented beige sedan through the unlighted capillaries of Highway 1. I couldn't do it. The thick fog seemed inpenatrable to my Midwestern eyes, and my nerves conspired with my imagination to concoct all sorts of plausible disasters. I worried that we would hit an adorable and endangered animal that hopped into the roadway, or that one of the oncoming cars would nudge us a little too far towards the shoulder and therefore to a deadly collision. When I watched the dips and angles of the road, my stomach would lurch, and I'd occasionally have to talk my digestive system out of making an uninvited outburst.
(I feel like I would make a very good mother someday, because I am proficient at identifying and worrying about implausible accidents. I am also becoming good at desperately clutching the car door handle whenever the automobile takes on anything more than a ten-degree curve.)
During these drives, Phil's face was focused but calm. I suspect he had his own white-knuckled moments, but he concealed them well. It made me feel like a little girl in the best ways, safe and taken care of. I'd gaze through the passenger-side window, staring at the stars peeking through the tree canopy. When your eyes are accustomed to the dull glow of city sky, the speckled blanket of night feels like a gift.
Sometimes I think about those drives, and how their combination of fear and beauty made me intensely aware of the temporality of time and existence. It's like remembering the present as it happens, writing down all five senses in slow and detailed motion.
(I feel like I would make a very good mother someday, because I am proficient at identifying and worrying about implausible accidents. I am also becoming good at desperately clutching the car door handle whenever the automobile takes on anything more than a ten-degree curve.)
During these drives, Phil's face was focused but calm. I suspect he had his own white-knuckled moments, but he concealed them well. It made me feel like a little girl in the best ways, safe and taken care of. I'd gaze through the passenger-side window, staring at the stars peeking through the tree canopy. When your eyes are accustomed to the dull glow of city sky, the speckled blanket of night feels like a gift.
Sometimes I think about those drives, and how their combination of fear and beauty made me intensely aware of the temporality of time and existence. It's like remembering the present as it happens, writing down all five senses in slow and detailed motion.
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