You are sitting still on the big road, but the car is on. I can hear it humming. You are pointed forward and not going forward. That is the strangest magic trick I have ever seen.
There are so many other cars. Red lights, all of them, blinking on and off like the whole road is breathing slow. You said once that when you grew up you would drive anywhere you wanted, fast, with the windows down. Right now the windows are up and you are tapping the wheel and staring at the bumper in front of you like it owes you something.
But look. Your hand went to the radio, and you turned the music louder, not off. And when the song came on, the good one, you did the thing. You drummed on the wheel. You mouthed the words. Right there, boxed in, going nowhere, you were still doing it.
I used to think being stuck was the worst thing that could happen. You taught me you can sing inside it.
The little car ahead moved one length. You moved one length too. See how patient you got? I could never do that.
Can you leave the good song on when the road opens up again?
Even then?