Driving home from a rehearsal or performance late at night on a rural two-lane road—we’ve done it many times over the last 18 years. Trying to keep each other awake. Almost always a 90-120 mile drive, and almost always I last until the last 20 minutes. Almost always Husband drives, for exactly that reason.
These drives are marked by light: the glow of painted lines on the road, the reflection of our headlights in the eyes of deer. The flicker of fireflies, of lightning, of stars. The spread of moonlight across a field, the spread of pink above a distant city. Shooting stars and Northern Lights. Snow and rain and fog pulled into and lit up by the tractor beam of headlights. These are the backdrop to many conversations, stories, arguments.
Maybe it’s just my tired brain, struck by this at the end of one of these drives, but here’s the thing: all that dark you move through, all you see is light. How obvious, how extraordinary.
