Literary Lilacs

State Road 80

 

Our life begat boredom.

 

We moved to Florida.

Sunny skies not shifting blame.

We drove, heading west.

Pavement wavered

Under the heat-soaked tires

Of our foreign-born car.

 

Driving, the road grasped his attention.

I clutched the handle on the door

And I trembled with the

Anticipation of never getting

Where we needed to go.

 

Rows and rows of orange groves

Yawned ceaselessly as we

Skittered around weary turns.

I murmured to the man beside me.

Two gold bands and an official document said

This man was my husband.

I couldn't be sure.

I lost track of the mile markers.

 

"What?" he said,

Making no pretense for his indifference.

My words were like the

Crumbled-down shacks that accumulated along the highway.

Neglect taught me to fear my thoughts.

 

"Do you want to stop at that ice cream store?" he asked,

Hoping that the sweet cool confection would erase my apathy.

 

"Sure," I replied.

I'd go along with his ploy.

 

We tackled the melting mounds of vanilla,

Which dripped carelessly down their sugar cone homes.

We got back into the car.

He drove on.

The direction didn't change,

Nor did our silence.

 

The speedometer slouched to 60

As we passed a field of sugar canes

With stalks stretching like aching arms.

I turned on the radio.

 

We drove by another sun-bleached town.

A K-Mart loomed up ahead.

Shopping carts and old cars littered the parking lot.

I was reminded of the detritus of my life.

I closed my eyes.

 

I thought about our life together.

A grocery list of misspent moments.

Careers at the forefront.

Childless by choice.

 

I longed to go back home.

Not to West Palm Beach

Where we had been residing for the past six years.

Stucco house on the Intracoastal.

Palm trees lazily lining our driveway.

Sailboats and yachts transporting false hopes.

 

No.  I yearned to return to the tranquility of North Georgia.

Athens – the place name of my youth.

The Oconee River where my dreams still drift.

The university where I pretended that my ideas mattered.

The magazine where I cashed in my 15 minutes of fame.

The downtown record stores and thrift shops and booksellers

Where I purchased little bits of my future or someone else's past.

The coffee houses where we savored lattés and scones and clever thoughts

And escaped the drudgery of misbegotten classes.

The music which defined my goals and shaped my politics

And gave me enough hope to go on living.

The music – ever etched in the landscape of my memory.

 

A bump in the road jarred me out of my reverie.

The present crashed down around me.

I was too numb to scold him for speeding.

What should a bump in the road matter anyway?

 

"I think we're almost there," he said

Over the mournful tones of a country ballad.

"No. We still have 30 more miles to go," I sighed.

I turned away from him and looked out the bug-stained window.

I glimpsed three wooden crosses guarding the side of the road.

They seemed to salute me with mocking solidarity.

 

"What's wrong," he implored,

As if he were a priest in a confessional consoling a wayward sinner.

"You're unusually quiet."

Static suddenly erupted from the speakers,

Absolving my feeble excuses.

 

I turned off the radio and my heart with it.

 

Soon we were snuggled in the comforts of my mother's kitchen.

Pasta and meatballs made with loving hands.

Carrot cake baking in the oven's womb.

Coffee brewing in a gleaming white pot.

Canasta game after dinner,

A sit-com on the TV.

 

Tomorrow, we'd continue west on State Road 80.

Sanibel – our holiday destination.

Tranquil island, shimmering beach.

Quietness lapping on the tender shores.

Glittering sands reflecting sorrow and tears.

 

There, I would gather time-worn shells,

As if picking up the pieces of my life.

A sweet love song echoing from the radio.

Picnic basket on red-checkered blanket.

A feast of remorse and longing.

 

Only then would I try to reclaim myself,

And talk once again to my husband.

 

Donna Marie Smith

© 1999