Ghost Travels | frames from a passenger window.

Saturday morning, we’re headed for the country. I’m still under the weather so Cynthia’s driving. The kids fall within minutes, lulled into sleep by the drones of the highway, low pitched & rhythmic. I remember how I used to try and make sense of that sound, searching for a pattern, a tone. How I used to watch the world go by, buildings & billboards, sodium lights and loud, giant words all framed by the rear window in my father’s company car. I was safe. And the entire universe just moved around us.

It’s raining & snowing, all at once. My window is smeared by large droplets of water, everything outside either white, brown or this very deep shade of green that mimics black. I imagine old paintings, an encrusted patina darkened by soot & eons of dust & neglect.

My camera will capture this.

My camera knows.

& I will remember.