Late Night Drive Long Time Gone

On the highway at night, every other car is filled with ghosts. (you could be a ghost, too, if you tried) They flicker in and out of view under the highway lights, the headlights of other cars. Children asleep in the backseat who sit up to look at you. Or they stay in dreams. Or they disappear as soon as you get close enough to see their faces. (you were young once, asleep in the back of cars on family trips, have you ever felt that safe again as the car heater on, hushed voices of your parents, the steady thrum of the car?) A car will ride alongside you for a few miles at a stretch. The driver will be your long dead best friend, her hair in a braid, her eyes on the road. She will be wearing her favorite shirt, the one from your favorite band, the show you’d been to together, you’d scream-sung along to every song. If she looks over at you, the spell will be broken, and she will be someone you don’t know. Hope she doesn’t look over, keeps her eyes on the road. Eyes on the road. (you could keep your eyes on the road, too, stop looking into the lives of strangers as they pass you by, but who would notice the ghosts then as they drive alongside you?) The man walking alongside the highway is shirtless sometimes, and sometimes he’s dressed all in black, and sometimes he’s a child. You will say, that’s so dangerous, but whoever is driving with you won’t have seen him. They’ll mumble, with sleepy breath voice, are you sure there was a man there? The man will nod at you if you see him, he’ll smile as he knows all your secrets. The man has looked into every car at night, driving the highway, he has seen everyone in the dark. (you saw him once as a child, from out of half-closed eyes, he walked the highway, your dad was driving, your mom was asleep, you looked the man in the eyes, and he thought you were sleeping, so he didn’t nod at you, didn’t mark you down). Alongside you, the car of your ex-boss, your favorite teacher from elementary school, your great-grandmother, all the dead driving forward. If you look over, your ex-boss will be eating French fries as he drives, licking salt from skeletal fingers. Your favorite teacher died too young, but you were a child so she seemed old. She will be singing along to the radio. (you heard her once singing as she cleaned the classroom when you came in from recess early because of a tummy-ache and you stood in the doorway to hear her, her voice was night skies and the top of the Ferris wheel). All the billboards and highway signs say you’re almost home, but you could stop here anyway. You could go through the midnight drive-through and get hot and greasy salty food and chocolate shakes and fill your mouth with flavor to have something to do. Stay awake, the signs say. We can help, they say. If you lived here, they say. But you’re not home now, not yet. (you could be home now if you tried). Your long dead best friend turns up her radio, and you can hear your favorite songs out her window, if you looked at her, would she see you too, you wonder. The highway shrinks and shimmers in the dark. All the trees and ravines and fields and houses are asleep. Their shapes in the dark are deeper than the black of night. Keep driving. (you could be a ghost, too, if you tried). Keep driving. Someone is turning in their sleep waiting for you to come home.