The Ride Home

I find it hard to talk on the ride home. Whatever it is, whereever I'm coming from, it doesn't feel right to tell my own stories when the real story is still sinking in.

I'm shy enough to feel that I'm intruding on the silence by speaking, that I'm selfishly seeking an audience where previously there was calm.

So the lights pass by, music of little consequence plays because that's what radios are for. Familiar signs scream through the fog, only the ones that trigger a memory might get through and be recognized and acknowledged.

The rhythm of starts and stops, traffic lights and rolling through stop signs, eyes closed, is still the same, still the way home.