(no subject)
Things began to change after the journey to Price.
Perhaps it began in the wind-tunnel hills of blowing snow and spiraling turbines. Semi trucks passing as the old car crawled through the turns and up the hills and their death lurched beside them in gullies and crags.
Perhaps it was precisely that immediacy that changed things.
Or the dogs in the truck that watched as they rolled their salt-covered bikes, tires flat and rims catching on chunks of ice and snow, across the pavement. Barking occasionally, friendly and cold.
Or the journey itself, long and tense. The smell of a caramelized engine trying too hard through the mountains of Idaho. And the peanut butter sandwich, rice cake lunches. Shaking in bathrooms from cold or anxiety. Frozen fingers, heated seats.
Or the season itself. The year and time beginning and straggling and slowing and speeding again before it found its stride through January.
Whatever the catalyst, or moment, things began to change after the journey to Price.
The house came together, and the sun came out and ailments were cured in a sad outdated office on a Thursday afternoon. And movement became easy and light.
And they stopped grinding their teeth.
And every morning they watched as the old man across the street approached his car and sniffed the air around its hood. And they watched as he'd lift the hood and his hand would hover over the engine parts, landing occasionally. And he'd look at this fingers where they'd touched and rub and smell the tips.
And they had more time, to cook and organize and watch the sea retreat through Nevada.
Sun-soaked and burning.
Perhaps it began in the wind-tunnel hills of blowing snow and spiraling turbines. Semi trucks passing as the old car crawled through the turns and up the hills and their death lurched beside them in gullies and crags.
Perhaps it was precisely that immediacy that changed things.
Or the dogs in the truck that watched as they rolled their salt-covered bikes, tires flat and rims catching on chunks of ice and snow, across the pavement. Barking occasionally, friendly and cold.
Or the journey itself, long and tense. The smell of a caramelized engine trying too hard through the mountains of Idaho. And the peanut butter sandwich, rice cake lunches. Shaking in bathrooms from cold or anxiety. Frozen fingers, heated seats.
Or the season itself. The year and time beginning and straggling and slowing and speeding again before it found its stride through January.
Whatever the catalyst, or moment, things began to change after the journey to Price.
The house came together, and the sun came out and ailments were cured in a sad outdated office on a Thursday afternoon. And movement became easy and light.
And they stopped grinding their teeth.
And every morning they watched as the old man across the street approached his car and sniffed the air around its hood. And they watched as he'd lift the hood and his hand would hover over the engine parts, landing occasionally. And he'd look at this fingers where they'd touched and rub and smell the tips.
And they had more time, to cook and organize and watch the sea retreat through Nevada.
Sun-soaked and burning.