Then my son became paperwork in a drawer.
After the first anniversary, I stopped taking Route 9 altogether. I could not breathe on that road. I could not pass a rest stop sign without hearing myself screaming his name.
Last Tuesday, my GPS redirected me because of an accident. I did not realize where it was taking me until the sign appeared.
Route 9.
My palms went slick against the steering wheel.
I wanted to turn around.
I did not.
Twenty miles later, my rear tire blew. VehicleWheels & Tires
I pulled onto the shoulder and simply sat there, both hands locked around the wheel, crying so hard the road blurred in front of me. Not because of the tire. Because that road had caught me again.
A knock on my window made me flinch.
An older man stood outside in a worn coat and cracked boots, his gray beard shifting in the wind. He looked like someone the road had claimed and never released.
