Zoning out at Work Vibes

A Song I Do Not Recognize

I expected fire. I expected smoke, and sirens, and flashing lights.

Too often I had thought of a moment like this. I am finally ready to sleep.

I could lay here in the snow forever. It does not even feel cold. Maybe I am in shock.

I am already beginning to forget what lead to this moment.

My parents bought a ranch on the mountain.

It is only common sense that they would host Christmas in their shiny new house, with their shiny new tree, surrounded by a shiny, trying their hardest to be new, family.

It is Christmas Eve.

I do not even know why I agreed to go. I do not remember why I decided to leave.

When I pulled out of the driveway, I saw her in the rearview mirror. The yellow porch light was the brightest thing for miles and she stood under the awning, away from the falling snow. My mother's cheeks were bright.

I hugged her before I left. She smelled like wine and asked me to stay. She quietly begged me not to go in the same voice she used when I was sick.

I remember those moments perfectly—a cool cloth on my feverish head. Gentle hands tucking me in.

The only times I was certain she cared. The times that we loved each other best.

My mother held me in the doorway and wanted me to stay. I clung to her for a second, but could not speak. 

I never said goodbye.

I let the car coast down the mountain, faster and faster, with shaking hands.

Blinded by my own tears, sobbing, choking on my own sorrow.

I never got to tell her how sorry I was.

The snow fell too thick. I didn't see the signs in time.

An oddly blissful moment of free fall.

A soft bed of freshly fallen snow. No one will drive this road for days to come.

No one will come looking for me.

I cannot make myself care. I am ready to sleep.

The radio plays on and on into the silent night.

A station I have never heard.

A song I do not recognize.