In the car, music like a soundtrack. �Things You Call Fate,� by Sondre Lerche, and I haven�t heard it before. The car smells of stale cigarette smoke, and I roll down the windows to air it out.
Passing the cemetery, I notice a large white van. A fire department van from C-U. Five men in jeans and polos, heads bowed, surround a grave on the left side of the road. The new side of the cemetery. Tears flow easily. There�s no makeup to run.
I slow down heading into my town, and there�s a wee blond girl cruising down the sidewalk on her bike. In spite of the training wheels, she�s really booking. Her wavy hair streams out behind her. Sondre Lerche becomes Radiohead, �Nice Dream,� and I feel heartbreakingly empty. Hard and alone. I long for things I loudly proclaim I do not want. I long for small, dirty feet and pockets of bugs. Me and him and 2.5 children.
It�s overwhelming. My left arm is warm from the sun. The White Stripes� �There�s No Home for You Here� comes on as I pull off the highway and head toward work, slowing to let an elderly African American man pass by on his bicycle. He�s wearing a sharp navy suit, crisp white shirt, tie and a gorgeous wide-brimmed brown felt hat, and I don�t know where he could be headed but K-Mart.
Now it�s tea and Son Volt, �Too Early.� I need a moment, please.