Driving in the Snow

Seven P.M. might as well be midnight in January:

Inky black night and anxious flurries of snow,

A long drive down the mountain.

Semi trucks with hazards blinking pool up in the right lane

Foolhardy sedans splash by on the left.

Salt smears the windscreen

The way unexpected tears blur your vision,

Wiped away with a sleeve or a spray of washer fluid.

One way or another, a hospital waits at the bottom of the hill.

Fifteen years ago, or is it closer to twenty?

There was another downhill drive in a snowstorm

To another hospital in another small town, to a waiting room

Where your purse would be stolen,

The one the exchange student gave you when she went back to Japan.

You’d take a replacement picture for your license at the DMV the next day,

Your face still swollen from a day of crying in the ER, 

And for eight years, bartenders would look at the picture and then at you,

And then at the picture again,

And you’d feel like explaining, but there’s too much to say,

And you still can’t make sense of it yourself.

If you can be still inside it, a snowfall is serene,

A hushed ballet in a black and white sky,

A blanket pulled over your head in a cold and quiet room.

In your headlights, the snow is a crowd 

Panicking in the high beams, 

A riot of static blocking out the lines on the road.

You must be the serene one, 

The voice of reason,

Steadfast in the slow lane when your tires feint left or right on the ice,

A firm hand on the wheel, calm and true 

While the snowglobe shakes around you.