Driving up into the Colorado mountains, it's the first time in a good while that I'm sitting in the backseat of a full car. It's started to snow, just white specks flurrying past the Camry's windows. Lonely weather, would be silence broken by the Shania Twain on the mix tape and the high drive moan of a down-shifting engine.
The acrid aftertaste from the after-lunch espresso lingers at the back of my throat. Staring at sheer rock face, interspersed between the grit encrusted sides of transport trucks and tankers, I can taste your cigarette kisses with every caffeinated exhale.
The snow outside thickens. Counter-traffic turns on their brights, lighting the way towards our destination, a guiding light in twos and fours. I worry about the tires as the road texture changes - the once solid parallel tracks slowly being obscured by white film.
Part of being out of control is the loss of responsibility. Your options as a backseat driver are, therefore, limited. I choose to rule over the window, and commandeer the floor for my shoes and bag, my dominion of warmth and observation established at a variable 6,000ft. We float behind a snow plow, a sanctuary of traction on the increasingly slick road. He pulls off as we glide into the Eisenhauer tunnel, sliding from one side of the continent to the next. The blizzard left behind as we ascend farther into mountains, the road ahead obscured by a soft white haze.
You said you were heading up to Colorado this weekend, and I wonder if your ears popped, too.
We're stopping soon. First to the ski fitting, then pick up the keys to our condo, our three day home.
I want to keep driving, reining backseat worry free, mountain queen.