Aug. 1st, 2006

hells_half_acre: (l'interpide)
I remember when we drove home from the mountain. You put on the classical music station. Grandiose scores played by large orchestras filled the cab of the old pickup truck. The night lay thick with clouds, while wind and distant thunder announced itself over the music.

We saw the train coming long before we got to the tracks. You smiled at my mischievously. You asked in your look just as much as your words. I looked at the train in judgment, and returned the smile. "Go for it," I said. And the music swelled and you stepped on the gas, and we tore down the road towards the railway crossing. It was a slow train, and we made it over with time to spare, but we laughed like we had cheated. It was the laugh that only foolishness can free.

The music calmed and you commented on what a perfect soundtrack it had been. So we continued. The music would swell as we went over hills, and you'd say "oh no, we'll die on the other side!" or "We're going to hit a moose!" or "Anything could be around that next corner!!" and I would clench my jaw, and gasp, and clutch the dashboard or the door handle, or grip the seat. When we went over the hill or around the corner while the music calmed we would sigh in relief, as if playing our emotions to an unseen audience.

We sped to your house, and you shut off the engine, and along with it the radio. You turned to me, smiled that mischievous smile, and said,

"Quick! Into the house! The storms almost here!" And then you jumped out your door, and I was suddenly desperate to follow. We slammed the doors and ran to the house as if it could all end in a heartbeat. We threw open the kitchen door and tumbled in, laughing on our self-made adrenaline high.

"There you are!" your father said, "I was thinking I would have to go out looking for you. Where have you been?" and we responded,

"We were listening to classical music."

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