southbound sunday afternoon.

 On the western side along the highway in the mountains of Virginia the trees are a symphony of orange and pomegranate.  They are booming, deafening even, and the harmony hazes my eyes and my arm hair stands on end.  Inside the car, I press power on the dash to turn off the radio.  It's quiet except for the engine and the reverberating harmonies of the autumn mountainscape. The sun keeps dumping its heated rays in through my window.  My shoulders are warm but my unclad toes are translucent with cold.  It is fall, the season of prime age.

While I drive, you pull the lever on the right side of the seat and push your seat back to a slight recline.  You cover your eyes with your baseball cap, the one that is shredded because you wore it so many years in a row; it turned from navy to gray before I even met you.  Your slightly tan arms are crossed and, though you don't make a sound, I know you are sleeping because you are mostly still.  When you twitch it makes me laugh.  

In time I forget that you are a passenger and send up open-eyed prayers on your behalf as if you were somewhere else, far away from me.  I hum instrumental songs and turn my cell phone to silent to guiltlessly escape in the mountains.