It’s a long day - driving home again. On the freeway - exit signs and traffic jams. Then the clouds break and the rain begins to fall. Wipers click back and forth across the windshield blurring the road and the tailights of cars. You roll your window down, as I’m rolling mine up, stick out you hands to catch the drops. Then you turn to me, your face framed by the pale light coming in through the window, and you take my hand.

Lost hours - landscape sliding by - water towers, small towns and distant lives. Maybe we should run away - find another place. Settle down, have a kid, get a job and take up space. Then my mind drifts You nudge me awake, saying “You’re far too tired. You can sleep and I can drive awhile.” Then you turn to me, your face framed by the pale light coming in through the window, and you take my hand.

Don’t say a word - we’ve said everything there is to say. The more we talk the less I understand, and your eyes say more than words. We’re just two fools who live by faith and grace, and when they let us down, we just don’t know where to turn.

1997