There was snow on the ground and it wasn't even November.
In the waning light of an autumn dusk that tinted the snow a pale violet, branches fell from trees to join the leaves they had discarded. And I--we--drove.
The unseasonable cold had left me unprepared and the car was louder than usual as I tried to thaw out the frigid air. Our conversation was almost as chilly. "I can't believe this weather," you said. I nodded. I wanted to say something funny, but the more I wanted words to form the less they did. It was typical behavior for me. With you it didn't start out that way until we started talking more. "Thanks for doing this, I really appreciate it. My dad flat out refused to drive me."
"Hey, I've got to be good for something, right?" you laughed at that; I was always good at making you laugh, do you remember? "Are you excited?"
"Terrified is more like it. It's a great opportunity but it's so far away, you know? I've never been away all that long." I stopped at a red light and looked over at you biting your lip to keep yourself from biting your fingernails. The dimming light of the sun reflected off of the snow on the side of the road in just a way to bring out those auburn highlights in your hair you had put in at the end of September. The airport was only twenty minutes away and I could see you watching the seconds tick away, counting. The conversation was for your own benefit, I was barely there.
I waved my hand across the emergency brake in an aborted attempt to place a hand on your shoulder and brought it back up to the steering wheel. It was too late now. "If you weren't terrified you'd be crazy."
"Helpful."
"Hey, I'm just being honest. Halfway across the country? It's a big commitment. I get stressed out planning a trip for a week." I got a raised eyebrow at this and smiled apologetically. The light turned green and we drove again.
The familiar landscape passed us by, and even though you were the only one going away it felt like we were both descending deep into the unknown. The sun was almost down. "What if I forgot something?" you asked suddenly, looking at me frantically.
"Do you think you forgot something?" I responded dismissively. There wasn't a reaction and when I looked over I couldn't even see your face you were so deeply entrenched in your purse. "Calm down, if it was important it would've been on a packing list. I saw that list, you are covered." A sigh and the purse went back on the floor.
"I'm just anxious. It's so weird to just be leaving everything behind. I knew it'd be hard to say goodbye to my mom and dad but I mean you and I haven't even been friends that long."
"Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean. I keep thinking about all the things that I got started over the last couple months and now I'm just up and leaving." I kept my head facing forward and my eyes on the road to hide the way my jaw clenched at the thought. If my insides were visible you would have seen my stomach doing somersaults.
"When I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do, my dad just told me to pursue what made me happy, what I enjoyed. Granted, I still haven't figured out what that is, but it's worked out pretty well so far. If I hadn't we wouldn't be having this conversation. So I think things haven't gone so bad. This sounds like exactly what you've been talking about since I met you."
The highway opened up in front of us and we trudged forward into the deepening night, the path ahead of us illuminated only by the brake lights of other travelers. I've always enjoyed driving at night. There's something about the solitude of a highway in the evening; a sense of communal pilgrimage with the other stray cars on the road.
Tonight it felt like a procession.
There was a long silence. I felt like maybe I tipped my hand. The next few minutes felt like forever. The only sounds were the car's engine and the random soft rock station that had been playing on the radio the whole time. It was a station neither of us liked, I'm not even sure what it was doing on in my car, but that night we never even noticed the music. We were in that car together but I could tell you were already on that plane and across the country. I wanted to pull you back and force you to be present, but I've always been bad at being selfish and I knew I had to let you go.
In front of the airport we unloaded your bags and you gave me a hug. You promised to call when you arrived and then I watched you enter through those sliding doors and exit my world.
I drove home that night from the airport and I listened to the music on the radio but never heard a word. I was trying to remember the last thing we said to each other before we parted, but couldn't remember.
You did call me that night when the plane landed. We talked a lot over the next few months, more than we ever had. About our hopes, our failures, our trials, our joys, and our defeats. And those conversations were like the ones before that autumn ride to the airport and before the October snow; effortless and honest.
In the end, though, you were happy. The phone calls dissipated. I still think about how different things would be had I met you earlier, or if I had just been a little more selfish. But maybe you'd be less happy, and that thought is even worse than the image of that sliding door closing behind you. Maybe nothing would have been different.
Maybe everything would be.
