By Brooke Kelly
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
You have no response. You kiss him goodnight.
The car door slams, you crank the ignition, and your headlights penetrate the inky black night. You shuffle a long playlist.
You pull onto the highway as that song plays. The one with the notes that run through your veins as if played just for you. As the synth builds, the lyrics crawl into the folds of your brain, spelling out your feelings before you knew you had them. The gather in your eyes, and all your old hopes run down your cheeks. Your right foot presses down on the gas pedal. Your thumb and your index finger twist the volume dial until the drumbeat pumps the blood through your veins. You can’t hear the sobs as they tear from your throat.
The melody wraps around you. It plucks the most valuable dreams out of your soul. As the song crescendos, it washes away the fantasy of an elderly couple on a porch swing. Of a proud new father, hovering over the bundle in your arms. Of outstretched arms on graduation day. Of holding lilies in a white gown. Of baby’s first steps. Of wrinkled hand in wrinkled hand. Of candlelit anniversary dinners. Of teenagers disgusted by kisses in the kitchen. Of painting nurseries. Of gravestones side by side.