Driving to Stephenville
Bridget Canning
When I was little we would drive to Stephenville every second Saturday to get groceries I liked it best when it rained ;&*4%*9$(C%*#;&/*E$%@*E$;)'/%*,.'H&*;.()E*/=%*XKW imposing and stark, the haunted houses of nature ennobled by the rain and fog. It was comforting knowing there it was cold and wet But so warm and dry here in the Chev pleasant shivers to remind me backs of parents’ heads in the front seat, gently muttering CBC Radio. I could hypnotize myself staring at droplets on the window the vibration would carry them on journeys across the glass until they were gone from view, traceless and trail-less I imagined they went somewhere warm to reconvene with the others Pow-wow share anecdotes of racing from the sky and just be together safe from jagged grey faces with their romantic gloom and uncertainty.
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