i think my road has turned into a jungle. when things happen, there is a fight to get out and get away and find something. she smiles and turns the music up louder. seventy miles an hour, windows rolled down, elbows up in wind and air and the pieces of sky that fall in when you leave things open (like the roof and the rain). the music confirms her speed with a passenger seat of promise and promises. broken ones, but still there. today, there is a strange feeling of buoyancy in these leveled out landmines: it is sailing and soaring and highhighhigh up and away from all those ends. on the tip of her tongue are the words she couldn�t say, reverberating, as she ignores the no trespassing sign and kicks up dirt with the wheels of the tires. been down that road before. the old nikon is in the back: the first one she ever learned on. her father gave it to her. it is black and white and gray and all the sharpness and blur of the images it has captured. the railroad tracks and city streets and diner corners and floating cars: it is one image. there is a notebook strewn in the backseat too. it is open to the page she reads everyday, the one she wrote a long time ago:

{and i want to insert one of my entries here � please suggest. i was thinking of this one:}

this is content. this is being cold and wearing sweatshirts and wrapped in beautifully stitched blankets and waking up on my own, at eight, getting cafe con leche and pan tostado from the cute cuban place, driving with the windows down, the sun in my eyes, swimming - cold air, heated pool, walking the balance beam over and over at the park, fitting into my jeans from middle school running outside onto the docks and dipping my feet in the water and laying on the hammock all because i can.

and now there is a wrought iron gate to get through. a jump and a skip and a hop like the track races she used to watch. what road are you down now?

he gets out of the car.

& remembers when she asked him to grab the film from the suitcase.

she holds the camera towards the openness.

in that direction.

she travels thousands of miles for a photograph.

and even without him, there is not enough film for this moment.

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