Drove on down from what they call the High Peaks, everything buried in snow, just goddamn soaked in it, pine trees sagging under untold inches of it.
Drove on down through the clouds snarling hints they might throw down some more snow, drove on down through the gloom, and somewhere out there on 73, somewhere in the Keene Valley, it all opened back up into clear skies and sunshine.
It’s a long ride, three hours one way, and three hours back, and while it’s true that there’s something liberating about having nothing to do but sit down and drive through some of the most beautiful sights this country has to offer, what with a job that never stops barking and a house full of kids and a world that just seems hell-bent on falling apart any day now, I still felt a little down in the mouth.
&&&
Is he gonna be OK up there?
Are any of us gonna be OK?
Is there gonna be anything left for him by the time we get done with this place?
Dad, do you think I’m gonna die up here, he asked, on our way up.
I wouldn’t be bringing you back if I thought you were gonna die, I answered.
But you can’t offer iron-clad guarantees; any of us might die, any second.
His mother didn’t think she was gonna die when they wheeled her away from me that fateful Friday morning more than thirteen years ago, and indeed, if I had followed my instincts and tried to talk her out of having the operation, she would have laughed and told me how adorable I was.
We don’t know anything, but we have to pretend we do in order to march through whatever day it is that stands before us.
Sure, you won’t die. Me neither, kid. I’ll be here when you call.
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Finally made it all the way out from 73 to the Northway, and the sun shone so bright, the late afternoon had turned from foreboding to gorgeous.
I fumbled through the radio dial and stumbled on some public radio station, some guy playing tunes on something called, I think, North Country Radio, a show called the Dean’s List, I think the guy said.
Just south of Exit 29 I pulled off onto a rest stop, and the guy played a song, and it sort of mesmerized me.
All day, I knew I would stop at this rest stop, to sneak in a cig.
I don’t smoke much anymore and I hadn’t had one in a few weeks, but I knew all day I’d have one at the rest stop. Something about a smoke at a desolate rest stop has always seemed, I don’t know, something romantic about it.
We all have our ideas of what’s romantic, of course. It’s a loaded word. Romantic words, romantic songs. I’m a sucker for the type of song I’d tell you is romantic, and as I pulled into the rest stop, the song I later learned is called “Don’t Let Me Go” played out on that radio show, over the hills and through the woods and right into my car, into my heart.
Romantic ain’t always just boy meets girl, right?
Sometimes, it’s just a feeling, a hopeful and sentimental and wistful feeling that just the right combination of guitar chords evokes, the sun setting but not down yet, many of the best years of your life behind you but surely, you hope, some good years left in front of you, too.
I pulled into a parking spot, turned off the engine, and listened, and let that feeling sink deep down into me, and looked around at the empty parking lot and at the sun going down behind the snow-capped mountains off to the west.
I remember the day we took him home from the hospital, the bitter cold of that afternoon, and the panic that overtook me as we walked him into his home for the first time: oh, we’re supposed to take care of this baby now, huh? How, exactly?
&&&
It’s hard to let them go, even when you want them gone.
He’s fifteen months away from a college degree.
A few days before I brought him back, he said he had something to ask me.
Yeah, shoot, I said.
I kinda want to get a job and get my own place when I finish school. You’re not gonna be offended if I move out, are you?
Of course not, I told him.
And of course I’m not.
I want him to get a job, get a place, find his way in the world, make the best life he can for himself.
&&&
I sit and listen to the rest of the song, wanting that melancholic swirl to last longer than it does, or wishing I could rewind it, wishing I could rewind, rewind back into just one more afternoon ride with him in the back seat, two years old and fast asleep; wishing I could rewind, just one more walk in the stroller, just one more morning at the playground, just one more.
The song ends.
I put on my coat, get out of the car, and just stand for a moment to breathe in that cold air as the sun continues to set.