Driving through the rain on a crisp March evening, the lights dance red and green lights onto the black highway pavement. The road seems to inhale, sigh and shift its weight. NPR has been hosting another fund drive in the background between classical pieces. Despite the drizzle, I roll down the window and change the station, counting on the wind and sound to wake me. Soft piano floats into my drifting consciousness, and I recognize the melody- her song. Instantly, I am aware of the empty passenger seat, the void in the car, the absence of cars on the road, the missing breath from my choking throat and the numb unfeeling hole in my heart where the missing passenger should be.  

  I inhale deeply; exhale slowly, light a cigarette between bursts of wind. A red neon sign approaches. “Prohibited,” the sign warns sternly as I zip past. The small tires on the road hum one long hypnotizing note to the discordant rhythm of the crunching rain. The tempo had quickened. Forcefully, angrily, the wind kicked the rain into my face from outside the still open window. The unsettling feeling of the missing passenger lingered guiltily, and the new approaching neon sign pointed an accusing arrow toward my ring finger. A new burst of wind sweeps the car suddenly right. A purple bolt flashes downward, lingers, vanishes. I slow, stammering uncertainly now, toward the menacing sign. “Prohibited,” the sign insists, without elaboration.

  Stalling now, I pull to the shoulder. The highway will be snaking soon, and I could always take the belt route. Inhale, sigh. Inhale; long exhale. The car smells like stale tobacco, coffee and wet socks. Deep inhale. I got on the road too late, off-course before the engine started, and on the wrong road for some time.

  Accelerating again, I edge toward “Prohibited”. A siren sounds in the distance, and I see blue and red lights pulsing some distance behind me, closing the distance. The rain has calmed some, apparently done raging for now. At least for a moment I’ll share the road. The comfort of the approaching officer encourages me some, and I brave the sign.

  The radio sounds deliberate, long, minor notes, and from the introduction. Beneath the melody, I hear her call to me, and with all my empty lonely heart, I wish I could follow. There’s not a PT cruiser made in any factory that can drive to that highway. The officer has minutes ago past me but I still hear sirens fading.

  The rain is only dripping now, and I can make up some lost time. I didn’t actually begin with a destination, just a need for departure. The house is always so tense, so filled with accusation in the air. The dream he gave was only a wisp, and stole precious months I could’ve had with her. He detested the silence, the void lifeless eyes I that glazed as they looked past him as if he weren’t there, resented the countless hours spent alone while I seethed somewhere else. He’d begun to speak, in his strained “let me monologue at you” voice. Halfway through the first sentence, I’d already stepped into the blue Cruiser and started the motor.

  I wasn’t overdue; wasn’t expected. I’ve been uncharacteristically punctual since March, another March in a time when timeliness could’ve changed my mother’s outcome. Doctors say she died of cancer, breast cancer. Someone could argue she died of corrupt medical insurance. The truth is she died of failure, my failure, my delay in coming. She died of my marriage, my distance, my inability to be close enough to observe, to decide. I have been frantically punctual since, too late.

  I light another cigarette. How many has this been? The ashtray holds five butts and I’ve been on the highway an hour and a half. Metallica is playing now, something fast, I’ve heard before, but the name escapes me. The air dried up. I turn the last curve for awhile. I notice city lights about five minutes out, shining blurrily though some fog yet lingering in the air. The smell of the rain still hangs in the air, crisp. My eyes have become so heavy by the time I pull into a rest stop and recline the seat. I may go home; I don’t want to think about it now. My mind lingers on the highway as I fade quickly, into dreamspace, into another crisp March on another road from another time.