Wind was churning the snow around us,

roads vanished, our trek looked destitute.

Ole’ Lincolns engine shifted stiff in distress

a routine six hour ride turned to twelve.

Lonely on the road without a choice.

Occasionally, a big rig passed,

Not without driving us off the road.

It did not matter how rough it got,

no sane father would allow a hotel.

Drive on...

Stop.

The passenger side wiper flew off,

It was consumed by the hungry storm,

At least my side was still bumping through.

Drive on...

Stop.

No traction- all five wheels were idle props,

snow ushered us to the rigid rail.

Only a small dent, a battle scar.

Drive on...

Stop.

A State Trooper blocked the on ramp,

he glared at him, and bashed my gender.

We both laughed; we took out the Maine map.

Drive on...

Each dash light was illuminated,

a V-8 just as fatigued as us.

Poor thing! Thank God her old wheels still spun.

Further North, the inbound tracks faded.

Drifting to the left felt more secure,

until the tracks faded to creatures’.

We broke in roads like her leather seats.

Stop.

Momentum waned just before the crest,

Blair hill used our last drop of patience.

No cell service or people for miles.

The snow fell faster than the tears on my cheeks.

He should have flown South with the birds,

instead he leaned over, resting on my shoulder.

Words brewed on my tongue, I bit them back.

What was I feeling in that moment?

Tonight’s action was in the rearview,

across the frozen lake lay the finale.

The small woodstove was an oasis,

fervor was second to a snug bed.

Weak men may have doubted me then,

his strength and comfort clouded my head.

That night will remain perpetually,

the pang echos, I could have said it.