Fate works in funny ways, but his hand curled back from the front seat to rest on the chalking skin extending from underneath my ¾ length skirt which must be ¼ clean after the wears it’s endured without wash since starting our odyssey has effortlessly persuaded me of it’s undeniable presence.
Sometimes he seems unreal, but then I’m reminded that it’s his flannel draped over my torso warming my Chicago sensitive skin vulnerable to the artificial air pumping on circulation throughout this van, his eyes beneath the glasses that keep turning to meet my naked glance, his lyrical voice repeating in my mind the flattery he mouths in silence to sustain secrecy from the others populating each of the five rows stretching the length of our carriage.
The circumstances in which we met cry out to those questioning destiny, disjointed by their bobble heads, beseeching them to believe that the world works in inconceivable contexts.
I catch myself in times of trepidation, weeping in a park in San Francisco, vexed by the crystal ball spinning circles in my frontal cortex. Road maps for these northwestern highways won’t help route the avenues of potential weaving through my mind when I wonder where this drive will take me a month from now, a year from now, a decade from now. I’ve always steered clear of lanes confined by solid lines, and life is slower should I choose to live amongst the masses of the dotted folks, but it eases accessibility to exits because before now my indecision has kept me cruising close to the shoulder.
A new border, a new country, a new start, and new notion that everything has happened for a reason.