WHITEby Sharon Auberle
For hours I’ve been driving in a world of white. Outside a town called Star City, the pale sun appears for a second, then retreats. There’s no warmth or light to it. White road, white sky, white fields—no demarcations. Occasionally, a diversion— an enormous trail of geese overhead in a ragged V. The road disappearing now in snow and whirling winds—here and there a glimpse of yellow—the center line, made visible by pecking crows. Black scatters up into white as I approach. A red truck appears; ghostly farmhouses; a faint row of trees; a cemetery…finally, a thin coyote, loping along beside the road. I’m lost in this world of white, out in the empty roads, in tiny towns where I belong to no one. I think of angels—the whiteness of them and pray—deliver me safely, please. Later, when I reach home at last, my tired eyes seem to be playing tricks on me. There, at the foot of my lane, a column—the size of a man, appears for a moment, like mist or white smoke, then disappears, as my headlights sweep across it. Up at the house, I see you waiting for me, your open arms, your red vest—warm under the porch light. Over our heads cities of stars and angels are wheeling through the sky. Some nights you can see them, burning, bright. white to black all resides in between
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