#49

Her car rolls to a stop next to mine. Through two layers of glass I can see her singing loudly to her radio, her mouth a tall, wide “o”, her face stretched taut, her eyes creases, her palms pressed against the top of the steering wheel, fingers stretched out wide. She suddenly stops, puts a hand to her mouth, shaking, wipes her eyes. No, she is not singing, she is screaming. She is mourning. Releasing pain and sorrow and agony as violent ripples that ricochet until they are no more. Her mouth a tall, wide “o”, her face stretched taut, her eyes creases, her palms pressed against the top of her steering wheel, fingers stretched out wide, as wide as she can, until she can feel her skin snagging bone and tendon. She turns her head towards me and I look away, pretending I wasn’t watching. The light turns green and her car pulls away.