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She seems to smile down at the world, just a sliver of light, ever watchful. Always seeing, always quiet. She appears to fly alongside the cars – it's just a trick – she doesn't actually visibly move. At least, that's what we've been told by the grownups. An optical illusion, they call it. She soars through open fields and over quaint brown farm houses, settling down for the night; past industrial parks, obscured by smog and reflecting off cold pavement garages. Trees break her smile, cracking it, briefly before the illusion moves her onward.
Shuttling down the highway red eyes light and flare angrily, surrounding her on all sides. She squeezes her eyes closed and presses her hands hard against her ears. There's no place like home, there's no place like home. Her heart beat matches the chanting in her mind. Maybe, just maybe, if she wishes for it hard enough she'll be home, asleep in her bed. Maybe, just maybe, the angry voices and the angry eyes will disappear. There's no place like home. Cautiously opening one eye she looks out the window; her eyes open wide and her mouth falls agape. For a moment she is frozen, staring at the sky. She begins to giggle. Her mother turns in the front seat to raise an eyebrow at her daughter, laughing hysterically and waving at the moon. “Mommy! The Cheshire Cat is watching me!”
He lights another cigarette, flicking the last one out the cracked window. He looks forward to when it's finally warm enough to have the window open more than an inch. His yellow stained fingers tap angrily on the steering wheel. Cutting to the left, his car leaps in front of a minivan that is forced to slam on it's brakes to allow him into the lane. He honks and flips the driver the bird – it's just how we say 'hello' in this state. Honking his horn again for good measure, he curses under his breath. Late again. She's going to be pissed again. I may never get my ass out of the doghouse at this rate. Flashing reds and blues ahead of him are given his complete attention as he strains to see what holds up his trip. Probably some dumbass kid, too busy jerking himself off to notice the semi stopped in front of him. He rolls his eyes skyward and stops. Now, ain't that something? Almost looks like it's grinning at us.
He watches the road, she watches the moon and smiles. They drive, listening to mix CDs and just looking at each other and smiling. Something has been on his mind all weekend, she can tell but won't ask. She's never sure she actually wants to know. His hand rests on her thigh and she traces the small scars that crisscross his hand. For the moment, all seems right in her little world. She watches the moon and wonders how she can turn this moment into the right kind of words.
She follows us all, moving the tides within us to her whim. She knows our secrets and our thoughts; she lives inside our dreams. She watches as we drive up and down the Turnpike, wrapped securely in our own worlds.
