by Rebecca Bernard
There is something about being in a car and not moving. Three hours in one spot on the highway. Parked. The strange sense of false movement when the other lanes begin to creep and you are standing still. Up ahead, is there blood? Is the asphalt a canvas of someone else’s’ loss? Humans in still unison.
I have spent time in cars: parked, moving, idling. It can be a good place to be, the car. I picture all the air from all the cars I’ve ever experienced. That closeness. It filling an auditorium. A stadium. Me forgetting the individual moments. The memories I hold in a state of constant revision as I remember and re-remember them.
We’re in an empty parking lot. It’s the weekend. The white lines like rows and rows of even teeth. Our youth flexes its thin arms. What is that strange feeling of holding a memory in your gut? The atom splits with sadness and joy together. A place of motion, and you held still. Rephrasing a sentence. The night is hot. It is a hot night. How do the changes affect the characters? Is that what I wonder about? Part of my life is spent in traffic. Part of my life is spent in traffic. If I say it twice, does it mean something unique each time? I am trying to remember.