Missing The Trees
An inside joke, shared with an inside voice.
We fly down the highway at speeds my eyes seem incapable of anchoring themselves in. Anything beyond the passenger window blurs together into one, long green and brown smudge. Every now and then, blue peeks through, exposing the sun’s rays, begging to touch whatever last bit of earth they can reach.
Slow down!
The words reverberate urgently in my skull, but as usual, they get caught in my throat on their way out. I swallow them back down, and the confidence that got stuck on my spine follows, the taste of shame its only remnant left behind.
Confrontation makes my stomach bubble, and sometimes my bowels scream for release at the first sign of provocation. It’s very possible that asking someone to slow down is not at all confrontational, but in the off chance that it is, the little voice in my head takes over and decides it’s best to keep quiet and not find out. I concede and blame the lack of a nearby restroom on our route.
During long rides, I always find myself playing a game I’d never named, thought to share out loud, or put to paper until now. The goal is to lock my eyes onto a specific tree in passing, and hold it in my sight for as long as I could possibly manage. Sometimes I’d roll down the window in anticipation of needing to lean a bit past the frame for a few glances longer. It was my best attempt at remembering each of them, of scanning every leaf and every branch and every missing chunk of wood.
I only had a few seconds, but I really did try my best.
Tears swell up in the corner of my eyes. I immediately throw my head back in response, and a loud yawn follows–an unspoken attempt at distraction from the heaviness of my chest bone.
Holding back tears is a practice of deep breaths, an exercise I’d mastered after years of car rides. Breathe in, one, breathe out, two, and so on, until I somewhat regain my composure. My right hand reaches to roll the tempered glass down, and I bend gravity in my favor to keep the flood rising against my will, at bay.
I’m easily saddened by the passing of people, of time, and I guess of the trees.
I figure the wind’s push, combined with gravity’s pull, will create just enough pressure to force my tears back into their ducts. Below my thighs, a sticky pool begins to form from the pleather seat’s direct contact with my skin.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and laugh at the sight.
How dramatic can you be? The voice inside innocently mocks, and I giggle at the absurdity of staring out the window like a character in one of those Hallmark movies, as I hold back tears about missing the trees.
“What’s funny, I wanna laugh too?”
The voice beside me is barely noticeable in comparison to the beat’s vibration, blasting through speakers with an unnecessary amount of bass. I decide to keep the joke to myself, an inside joke, and point towards the display screen, signaling the song as the source of my laughter.
An inside joke, shared with an inside voice.
I nearly let out an audible laugh again, but instead bite my tongue until I flinch and turn toward the wind while mouthing words of the tune playing, that I don’t know a single word of. I wondered whether or not crying for trees or sharing a joke with oneself was absurd, but before I land on an answer, a familiar rhythmic vibration interrupts mid-debate.
What a horrible sensation.
I usually keep it on Do Not Disturb throughout the day, but considering the circumstances, I temporarily yielded my digital shield. The screen is slanted, half covered by the cup holder it’s placed in, and those wretched bubbles start to form in my gut at the sight of the name pictured.
Hastily, I reach for the phone, swipe up, turn the DND back on, and lock the screen. I can’t control the feelings of others, their expectations of immediate follow-ups, or constant attempts at contact, but I can control my response frequency and timing.
I toss the phone to the backseat.
That buzz is always such a horribly bittersweet sensation, usually more bitter than sweet. People are always behind it, and people, unlike trees, make both my head and heart race, sometimes together at once. Their pointless conversations, meandering around requests, and unsaid expectations drive me insane.
It’s only on a rare occasion that I wish I could command time, like I do the wind and gravity, so that the voice on the other end of the call might remain suspended in the moment, just a while longer, like I do the trees.
I reach forward and grab my purse placed in the console between the front seats. My fingers feel around inside of it, making contact with a red prescription bottle. After unscrewing the plastic top, I shake loose 2 round white capsules from the container.
The chill sets in within 15 minutes of taking the pill, and I decide to give my attention back to the smear of green and brown racing by.