The Memory and the Moon

It’s an eerie feeling, driving down the lonely streets of towns I’ve walked in, that I’ve driven by a thousand times before.

It’s late at night, and with the exception of a few shop owners, closing up, or bar hoppers, it is empty and deserted. I drive slowly. I drive as if I may disturb this incredible peace, this rest that seems to take hold upon the town I’ve only known to bustle about.

I am aware of everything around me on these nights. Of the creaking the train makes as I drive along, next to its tracks, of the flickering of the lamp. I notice the features on the face of the man standing on the corner, smoking a cigarette, waiting to walk back into the bar he left. I can guess his entire life story. It’s always at the tip of my tongue.

Sometimes, as I drive down these lonely streets, I feel as though I’m a time continuum, I feel like I’m stuck between here, and the future, and the past all at once.

As if everything that seemed to make my life make sense was utterly and shamefully gone.

I drive past the high-school. I had been by it only a few hours earlier, kids laughing, standing on the corner, running, pushing, kissing, lying down on the grass, enjoying the sun.

It’s empty now, and all that’s left is the broken down Oldsmobile parked in the far corner in front of the school, the one that’s been there for the past few days, absently awaiting its fate.

The same kids would return the very next day, completely unaware of my presence, that only six hours before, a little Chevy Cavalier had crept past. They would never think about me.

There are a dozen parking spaces, tennis courts, a football field, and then the road goes on.

The tall, newly leaved tree’s bend gracefully over the road, creating a tunnel of light, of magic, and also of darkness. The few streetlights scattered sparsely on the road sides reflect the light that bounces off the lake behind the million dollar homes I pass every day.

There is no one on this road, behind me, ahead of me, no one waiting to turn in front of me. There is no nice old woman, absent mindedly cutting me off in traffic, only to drive something like fifteen miles under the speed limit, frustrating me to no end. Even still, I find myself wanting to drive somewhat like fifteen miles under the speed limit, because if I crashed now, it seemed as though no one would ever find me, hurt, unconscious, maybe even dead on the road side. No one would ever know I had even been there. I would fold into the landscape, and into the tree’s that curved over the street.

Still, I find myself accelerating. I push down on the gas peddle, aimlessly driving down this forlorn road, knowing the way home by instinct. I pass block after block of beautifully dressed homes, all standing silently on their little hills, carefully cradling their inhabitants, who are probably sound asleep on their soft beds. I think about the people in those big houses. I think about the million dollar paintings they must most certainly own. I think about the entertainment centers, and the games. I wonder if maybe some have not yet fallen asleep. Maybe even at these wee hours of the morning, there might be someone, sitting up in their office, leaning against an expensive chair specifically positioned to custom the curve of their back. Maybe they wonder if the people in the cars passing on the road below even give a moment’s thought to them, sitting all alone in their lonely office, in their million dollar home, their multi thousand dollar cars parked in the drive way.

I wish for a fleeting moment that they would know that I thought about them, as I drove past, as I wondered what life would be like tomorrow, in the wake of every memory strewn across this broken road.

Of the times we sat in this car together, following the gentle curve of the road, singing “Leila” by Eric Clapton loud and strong, because I had insisted on hearing it over and over again. I thought of the time I was scared to drive this way, because there were too many one way streets, and I was so worried about irritating someone driving, and even still, we drove this way. I sat rigid in the driver’s seat, waiting for another car to plow into mine, anticipating an accident that would end my life. I swore when we arrived safely at our destination that I would never ever take that way again, and you would just have to cope with us taking the long way home.

I wished that you could see me now, and know that this is the way I take home every single time. I don’t even think to go another way. It is my graceful defiance to everything you instilled in me.

I thought of the time, at the end, when you followed me home. The time I was falling asleep at the wheel, swerving off the road, and quickly jolting back on track.

You had called my cell phone, I had ignored it. All I wanted was to go home, and burry myself in my covers, in my pillow, and forget the entire world. I didn’t want to eat, I didn’t want to wake up, I didn’t want to laugh or see things ever again. All I wanted was to fall asleep, and never wake up, and only dream of things the way they were, long ago, when things were good, and we laughed, and loved, and never even raised our voices.

I wanted to be caught in it, even if it wasn’t real. I wanted to stay lost in my disillusionment for the rest of my life.

And if I stayed driving on this curving street, then that wouldn’t happen.

I remember hitting rock bottom. I remember pushing you into your car, and sitting on the driveway, sobbing, crying, holding myself and rocking.

Rocking, soothing myself, trying to make my heart stop pounding, and trying to soothe away the panic attacks that came in swift rushing waves. Horrible waves, like storms, that washed me away, that were drowning me.

I look back into the review mirror, remembering seeing your headlights, driving slowly behind mine, echoing the turns of my steering wheel.

There is nothing in my review mirror now, just blackness, just the red glow of my headlights reflecting off the signs that say “Stay off shoulder”, or “MPH: 30”

I like it better this way. I like being alone on the dark street, knowing that tomorrow I’ll wake up, and it will be a brand new day to live and love, and laugh and cry, and get angry at, and take joy in. I like not feeling utterly lost and desperate on this old, dark, winding street. On this tunnel that seems to be leading me slowly on to my future, to moving on, to being new.

My car eases upward. I push harder on the gas, inching the wheels up towards the bridge that covers the Dupage River. I think about the kids that sat on the banks, fishing for Cod, or Bluegills only a few hours ago. How every day, without fail, the same three little boys would ride their bikes, sturdy and dependable down the river, to go fishing, to catch fish they can’t eat. The river is far too dirty, anyway.

I think about turning and avoiding the stop light. I think about the last time I sat on the dark corner, all alone, feeling like the light would never turn from red to green, feeling that at any second, that one bad man we’d always been warned about would come crashing through my windows, ready to do a horrible thing to me right there on the corner of Crescent and St. Charles Rd.

I decide to avoid the stop light, turning down a street with no street lamps at all.

I quicken my speed just a bit, thinking about the darkness encompassing me and my car, the only shed of light being the glowing numbers on my dashboard, giving me readings of gas, miles per hour, and the temperature of my engine.

I check them often, making sure I never get too close to running out of gas, or my engine overheating. I’ve learned my lessons well, driving this little green Chevrolet down the roads of the Chicago Suburbs, often finding myself stranded in some parking lot I had pushed my broken down car into to get it out of the way.

It’s one more measure to keep my life in line, to keep me from sinking, to keep me above water. I love knowing that I’m responsible for the well being of myself, and that if my tire were to pop, I would jack up my car and change it myself, or if I had left my lights on and my battery had died, I could jump my car with the jumper cables I had stored in the trunk, readily awaiting the incident that could potentially occur in the near future.

I was prepared for anything. I wish you could’ve seen how serenely and calmly I could handle a disaster these days. I never dissolved into tears. My voice never grew shrill.

I wish I could’ve proven that you were so wrong about me. I see now what you had turned me into.

I turned down the familiar streets so close to home, so close to my warm bed, to the silent hum of my computer running, sitting on my lap, as I checked my email after a long day.

It was a rhythm, something I could do with my eyes closed. Left here, right there, stop at that stop sign, then turn left again, another right, look for the driveway, for the silver van and yellow truck. I knew it by heart. I knew the scent, the feeling of knowing I was always almost home.

Passing the neighbors house’s, I remember riding my bike as fast as my legs would let me spin the peddles, turning quickly into driveways of friends, ringing the door-bell, “Can Melanie play?”

“Sorry sweet-heart, she’s not home yet”

“Ok, I’ll come by later”

Turning down my street, I see the faint tracing of my name in the sidewalk next to my hand print and the date of when the village poured all new sidewalks down our street, and all of the kids ran down the end of the block to make our imprint on the world. My hand still fit in the indent, though barely, as I had wiggled it around to make room for years to come. I checked every time I passed, vividly remembering the feeling of the cool cement on my hand, of the rush of adrenaline at the possibility of being caught by some police officer, or maybe even the president. I remembered the feeling of being scolded by mother after she had found the cement stained clothes bundled up in the corner of my room. Looking back, I can remember the little glint of pleasure in her eye, that her daughter had indeed left her imprint on the world, at the end of our block, on Broadview street, when she was ten years old.

I pull into the driveway, hearing the grinding of pavement under my tires, feeling the resistance of my brakes as I rolled to a stop and put it in park, seeing my lights go off and hearing the engine click as I turned the keys and shut off the car.

I open the car door, push in the lock, and walk to the back door. Clink, goes the gate latch as I open it to let myself in. Quietly, I try and close it, as to not wake my family.

I shuffle silently, turn around, and there, floating over the tree’s, is the yellowing, beautiful, peaceful and stirring full moon. I stand for a second, taking in the scent of the cool night air, smack dab in the middle of May. The moon is staring out at me, daring me to run, and enticing me to jump. I realize that my drive back to my house had truly been a journey home, and all I had to do was grab it, take it, run with it, wildly through the night, breathlessly in the air, never stopping and never looking back.

I turn to the back door. I remember when we installed it.

Our old one, like the one we have now, was a sliding door, big picture windows.

It creaked, and would get stuck, allowing for us to squeeze through a tiny crack to get outside. It soon became very evident that we needed a new one when old faithful had refused to close at all. The very next day, there it was, clean, shining, glittering in the morning sun. It was all we could do to contain our excitement of having something new, something to brag about to the whole neighborhood, about the new door we have.

“This one doesn’t stick, and it doesn’t make any noise when we open it”

It had never occurred to me that maybe every one else had a door like that, and that we might’ve been the weird ones.

I step in the house, on the hard wood floor I’ve scrubbed a thousand times. I grab the golden handle, cool to my touch, and I pull, gently, and slowly. I hear the door touch the frame, and I flip the latch to lock it.

I look out at the moon again, still offering out its hand. The crystal moon, floating in the dark, starry sky, was blaring out one last chance that I might take it up on its offer.

I stand there, perfectly aware that this moon, this beautiful and full and wonderful moon would always be inviting me, day after day after day, until the end of the world. I smile to myself, then turn to walk up the stairs, six of them, turn right down the short little upstairs hall, turn the handle on my bedroom door, and climb into bed.

Out my window, I see the moon, grinning, knowingly at me.

Maybe tomorrow, Moon. Maybe tomorrow.