The Long Drive

The road stretched ahead, endless and gray. Bordered by skeletal trees that seemed to claw at the sky. The highway is nearly empty with just the occasional headlights passing before they fade into nothing. The persistent hum of the tires against the asphalt is broken only by the occasional splatter of rain on the windshield. 

I haven’t turned the radio on. I don’t want music or to hear voices. Just the sound of the car, the rain, and the low hum of the heater working to keep the cold at bay.

I could have flown and maybe should have. It would have been easier and faster. The thought of the airports and sitting in the terminal surrounded by strangers is unbearable to me, and so I drive with hours ahead of me. 

It’s been hours already. Maybe more, time feels stretched and warped. My knuckles are white gripping the steering wheel. I adjust my grip forcing myself to relax my hands. I want to reach for my phone but I don’t. No one is expecting an update. They assume I will be there and I will.

The wipers drag across the windshield leaving streaks that blur the road ahead. I remember how you used to complain about that, how I never changed the wipers when I should. How you always noticed the little things like my shoelaces always being too loose or how I hum to myself when I’m anxious even thought i don’t realize I’m doing it.

You would have told me to get some sleep before the drive. “You’re going to be dead tired by the time you get here.” you would have said. And you would have been right.

I almost laugh but it feels bitter in my throat.

I blink hard as my eyes well up and glance at the passenger seat. It’s empty of course but for a moment I can almost see you sitting there. Your knees curled up to your chest, staring at the road with that quiet, thoughtful expression you had when you were thinking too much.

I swallow. My throat is dry. I should have brought water.

The gas station is a blur when I pull in. Bright fluorescent lights hum all around me casting a sickly glow of the pavement. I kill the engine but just sit there for several minutes. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes. The silence is so much heavier without the hum of the car.

You used to love road trips. I never understood it. Sitting in the car for hours with nothing but road and sky and gas station snacks. You said it was the feeling of being between places and the motion. The way everything kept changing outside the window.

“You should enjoy the drive,” you’d say.

I never really did but now I didn’t want the drive to end. At the end of this road is a funeral that I am not prepared for.

I force myself to move, to get out of the car. The night air is cold and the wind bites against my skin. The place is nearly empty. Just one truck parked on the other side of the lot, probably the attendant. 

Inside the fluorescent lights make my eyes sting and my head ache. I grab a bottle of water, a cup of stale coffee, and some chips I doubt I’ll eat. At the counter the cashier barely looks at me, just another stranger passing through that he’ll never see again.

Back in the car I sip the coffee. It’s too hot and tastes like burnt plastic but I drink it anyway. I need to keep moving. The longer I stop the more I think and the more I think the closer I feel to breaking. My body is heavy with exhaustion and the road somehow feels longer when I start driving but I have to keep moving.

You hated the silence, the radio always on in the background. You filled the empty with music and stories. I think about our last road trip together. You made me listen to your newest favorite album. I still hear your voice singing along, soft and a little off key.

I finally turn on the radio and flip to a station playing something low and slow. It doesn’t fill the silence the way you did.

The road stretches on. The rain starts again. light at first but steadily gets heavier. The wipers smear the the wet glass. I should have changed them. I consider pulling over. Just for a little to rest my eyes and wait for the rain to slow but I keep going. I can’t stop. Not yet.

The hours blur together. The world outside the car is just darkness and rain, headlights and mile markers. My body aches from sitting too long but I don’t care. I just need to get there.

At some point my mind drifts. The road feels unreal, like I’m moving through a dream. My eyes grow heavy. A flash of movement. Too fast, too sudden.

My heart pounds as I hit the breaks. The tires skid on the wet pavement as the car jerks. There is nothing there. Just empty road stretching ahead, slick with rain. I grip the wheel tighter and let out a shaky breath. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Just the exhaustion. I could have sworn it was you I saw. Standing there in the rain, watching me.

I shake my head. I’m nearly there now. I press the gas and keep driving. I have to keep moving.

Dawn is starting to break when I finally pull off the highway. The roads are familiar now. The same roads I remember winding through town. We grew up playing along these same roads and now they seem both familiar and different at the same time. Time has passed here without me.

I stop at the curb in front of the house we were raised in. This is it, the end of the road. I take a deep breath but I can’t move.

The house is waiting. The funeral is waiting. Its time to say goodbye but all I can do is stare at the house through the window. 

I’m not ready to say goodbye.