It Goes by Too Fast

Red peered out the driver’s side window. The cool mountain air brushed his cheek and fluttered his hair. He extended his arm out the window, slowly turned his hand, and rode the cool mountain air. It lifted his hand but lifted his spirit higher.

The radio played Red’s favorite song—the familiar strum of the guitar, the unmistakable folksy twang of Robert Earl Keen’s voice. He sang along with a kind of righteous hubris that only one’s favorite song can summon. His fingers, earnestly drumming on the steering wheel, worked in rhythmic harmony with the tap of the snare drum. He peered out the driver’s side window again and fell into a momentary stupor, Robert Earl Keen’s voice just muffled background noise now, in awe at the sight of the sheer rock face that jutted into the sky—or the heavens he thought with a chuckle.

His Chevy Silverado, with the odometer reading 150,000 plus miles, barreled along the blacktop as if it just rolled off the assembly line: the chassis a deep, rust-less black, fenders sparkling, and bolt heads unmarred. A flicker of yellow, caught in his peripheral vision, broke his trance and a sharp turn in the road abruptly emerged before him. He swung the steering wheel to the left, a crumpled yellow taco wrapper tumbled to the right. The tires whined as if they too were singing along.

He felt weightless, suspended, as if he floated on air. The tires no longer whined; Robert Earl Keen’s voice faded away. Only the wind whistled.

---

A distant memory flashed to his mind. It was a cold and rainy Saturday. He stood in the living room practicing, listening to the whistle produced with each swing. Saturdays were for baseball, and he loved baseball more than anything.

“Try the phone line dad. Try it. Try it.”

“Sonny, it’s pouring down outside.”

“Try it!” he excitedly cried—the way only a boy on the verge of puberty can.

Please, please, please, he mumbled to himself, while his cleats tapped on the floor.

“Just static–“

“So, it’s on?!”

“Look outside sonny, no baseball today.”

“Can we go and see? It’s not even raining anymore!”

“Red. I—”

“PLEASEEEE.”

“Okay. Okay. Grab your gear.”

“Got it! Let’s go. Let’s go!”

They pulled into the parking lot and stopped just in front of the infield, taking up two parking spaces but it didn’t matter—the lot was deserted. The fine, bright red dirt turned a mushy, dark reddish-orange-brown—similar to the color of his dad’s forgotten used fishhooks that hung on the garage wall. He sat there, watching little dimples appear and disappear in the puddle that formed off the pitcher’s mound, wishing he was staring down the pitcher instead.

“I guess no game today, dad,” he said, strangely, with relief.

One of his favorite memories of his old man. How he drove in the pouring down rain—knowing well enough that there would be no game—to appease his boy.

---

Suddenly, he felt heavy, as if gravity had flipped and all his weight had turned on his head. The yellow ball of taco wrapper bounced before him. Then he heard melodic screeching—like skating on thin ice.

---

Another moment came to him, this one colder. They didn’t hike far, yet they breathed heavily, and their calves ached. They stood at the edge of a frozen pond as snowflakes softly fell around them.

“Isn’t this just beautiful, honey!” she said with delight, her voice lifting up on the word beautiful.

“Yeah Mom,” he plainly replied in a way that was easily mistaken as indifference—a reaction fitting for a teenager—but was really him lost in amazement of the world.

He plumped down in the snow and ice, removed his boots, and laced up his skates.

“Oh, I bet that ice is cooold,” she said almost laughing, giddy, just happy.

“It’s not that cold,” he said, bluffing—it was cold.

A boy—not quite a boy really but not yet a man—and his mom. Connecting, bonding over their shared love of the immaculate, raw beauty of nature, of the outdoors, of mother earth.

---

His body jolted from side to side, and he heard a series of thumps as if it were a melody, a beat. The mangled yellow taco wrapper, a kind of abstract origami—probably celebrated somewhere as art—skirted back across the dashboard.

---

He whipped further ahead in time, to them dancing slowly, embracing each other, HER white dress, his navy-blue tuxedo. In a way—crumpled like the taco wrapper. An empty banquet hall, just them and the band, taking their last dance, his favorite moment of that night. She picked their first dance; he picked their last.

She rested her head on his chest, no longer worrying about the unpredictable spring weather or the pressure of being the center of attention. She wasn’t thinking about her makeup rubbing off his jacket—well, more likely just not caring.

He embraced her, softly serenading her as the band played, masking his lack of vocal talent. The drumstick steadily striking the cymbal in harmony with the beat of their hearts.

And they danced, to his favorite Eagles song.

---

Warmness rushed over him and a faint metallic, copper smell grew stronger. He tasted bitterness on his tongue. The yellow taco wrapper, now with a splash of red, hopped down the dashboard.

---

Now he held another wrapper, not yellow paper but a white towel with blue and pink footprints. His son lay on his chest. Just him and his boy. He stared at his face, that little nose, the top of his head and his fiery red newborn hair, hidden under a mini white beanie, looking so peaceful.

---

All he could make out now was a ruffled yellow blur.

---

Then he saw them all again but just a glimmer, holograms of who they were at their finest.

His dad, with his reddish brown—much like the fishhooks—hair puffing out from under his trucker cap and grinning a wide great to see you again sonny smile from under his matching reddish-brown beard that was fully grown and wild.

His mom, her dark brown, flowy hair. Full of youth, smiling lovingly at him as if to say welcome home honey.

His bride, her white dress and beautiful light brown hair, mesmerizing him with her eyes.

His son, not a baby anymore but a boy running, laughing, happy.

They were all happy and so was he.

---

He dangled, still peering out the driver’s side window, the cross of his necklace lying against his forehead, no more weightlessness, no more heaviness, no more jolting—just lifelessness. The crackle of the radio turned into a static drone. The crumbled yellow taco wrapper with its cutting, crisp folds, the one SHE gave to him that morning, rested next to him.