We were up too late, the gate of night was falling. We were wandering languidly past our bedtimes, past his certainly, the boy asleep in the back. Night here means wandering, night here means nowhere to go. If there were stars to see, we could have, but they were hiding, lost in thick cloud. We set our sights on closed roads, we set our sights on the scars of september eleven. If port security weren’t so ramped up these days, we might have never been deported. From country to country we sailed and I collapsed as if shot against the car when I went to look for the man in the train with the shotgun power. They laughed and we went to play in another part of town. The very end of the road is a stalkers shrine with a cop car that goes around and around all night overnight every single hour. Singing along to the music, I felt like I alone in the universe knew the words to the music pouring from the speakers, louder behind us then before, like light streaming at the speed only it can go. Shining on the road, I leaned forward so the little white strips could see me. We were breaking physics. Glowing pale lines, empty fields, the planes touch down from Tokyo at two in the morning. Andrew stayed awake until we dropped him home.
In the hour and half we had for rest, the car was broken into. Glass smashed into the seats, today was all dealing with ICBC and the auto-glass shop. A third of the city was hit, a few hundred cars. I found out when he returned hours early, when he pulled me from nightmare shakes to explain his stress. I’ve put him to bed, held him and laved him in care until he could sleep. We’re damp with it now, but under the covers he’s warm. Soon I’ll wake him, for we must go and see to the vehicle. It’s not ours, it’s a borrow, but I want him to have every moment in sleep that we can possibly grab.
Occasionally I can pretend he lives here. In spite of things, contentment floods me.
It’s time.