Interstate

by Rachel Levine

Driving, driving, driving. Seven hours now. Past the mailboxes of America the beautiful. Small proud towns and trailer parks with flowers planted in empty cans. I can be steady in my thoughts, steady on the road. I can also be lost on the road, lost in my thoughts. The town is Peru and the Interstate must be somewhere to my right. She asked me, “What are you driving now?” and looked at my car, “Do you remember Matt drove a Subaru? It was silver.” I didn’t remember. I didn’t even remember his face. “He hated me,” I told her, and that is my concise but complete summary of four years. “He didn’t hate you,” she said, laughing, “He never hated you.” She picked up her baby who was tugging at her shorts. She has a baby now. Most of them have babies now. In Peru , I try to call him up. The only thing that comes back to me is his voice, its gravel and pitch, low and coaxing in my ear, but I cannot recollect words. “I’ve lived so many lives since then,” I told her. “I forget everyone I ever loved.”

©Rachel Levine 2006