Last night the rain took away everything. The way ahead. The way behind. The shoulder. The line that describes the curve. It left us blackness, scatter-shot with impact flashes. The wiper blade heart beat. The growl of a tire suddenly churning water. The blessed quiet when the rubber found the road again, and there we were still moving forward, still pointing in the right direction. Alive. Somewhere in the dark west of Red Cross.
Tucker roused himself from his private walkabout and kept vigil with me. Darkness that fluid, that full of rattle and flash, requires all eyes on it, requires witness.
Lightning laid things bare then hid them again in deeper darkness and left us to navigate by memory and instinct. An act of faith. We never stopped believing in the road.