Love Bleeds Past the End

a Good Friday litany

Driving south on US31, the world is faded, half-alive. The try-hard sky shines weary, barely blue. The trees are all the dullest brown, scraped of seasons. Just sticks.

We are all doing our best.

Behind me, Silas and Ruby stare out the window and at their phones. I still feel the ache of a dream I had two nights ago of Silas, age six and wearing blue feetie-pajamas, explaining that he didn’t need me to drive him to school anymore. He drives himself. They are always every age at once.

On the shoulder of the highway there is a freshly painted cross with a bright red heart hand-painted at its center. “In Loving Memory” Someone cared enough to plant it here. Honor and tragedy.

Love bleeds past the end.