![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Rest Stop
The rest stop is on a kind of mesa, perched between
the twin canyons of the three-lane interstate. To get there
we enter an enclosed bridge/corridor from the parking lot
on our side, east-bound. The windows look down over
the traffic passing under us, and we play a game it turns out
both of us made up when younger -- can you cross
the bridge without getting "hit"? Perhaps everyone plays
this game. "Oh no, an 18-wheeler, walk faster--"
It's a close call. "We made it!" "Just barely!"
We've played it enough to know that sometimes
there are just too many, no matter what you do.
But once set in the imagination, you can't not play,
it seems. Sometimes you make it, sometimes you don't;
sometimes it's easy, sometimes exhilaratingly close. You
never know. For my brother, for Davey, who always loved
a game as much as the next person, maybe more -- no,
definitely more -- the traffic was heavy, heavy, heavy.
the twin canyons of the three-lane interstate. To get there
we enter an enclosed bridge/corridor from the parking lot
on our side, east-bound. The windows look down over
the traffic passing under us, and we play a game it turns out
both of us made up when younger -- can you cross
the bridge without getting "hit"? Perhaps everyone plays
this game. "Oh no, an 18-wheeler, walk faster--"
It's a close call. "We made it!" "Just barely!"
We've played it enough to know that sometimes
there are just too many, no matter what you do.
But once set in the imagination, you can't not play,
it seems. Sometimes you make it, sometimes you don't;
sometimes it's easy, sometimes exhilaratingly close. You
never know. For my brother, for Davey, who always loved
a game as much as the next person, maybe more -- no,
definitely more -- the traffic was heavy, heavy, heavy.