Marsh Creek Grievers
by April DeOliveira
(this is part III. Read Marsh Creek Grievers from the beginning.)
Driving with the Sun in my Eyes
The highway pavement blends into a luminous blob of asphalt and sky and floating dark spots through my squinted eyes. I squint harder and adjust my visor, to no avail. The luminous blob remains the luminous blob as the traffic slows and quickens, slows and quickens.
I’m on my way home during that time of day when the Sun is starting to set, when it melts into the horizon with ferocity and pierces the eyes of every driver on the road—before it dips low enough for curses and exasperated sighs to transform into exaltations of nature’s miraculous beauty.
The other day, an 80-year-old man was all over local news because he crashed his car into the back of a woman and child biking—the woman on the bike and the child in one of those attached buggies.
It was that time of day, when the Sun is starting to set, when it melts into the horizon with ferocity and pierces the eyes of every driver on the road—before it dips low enough for curses and exasperated sighs to transform into exaltations of nature’s miraculous beauty.
The man was approaching a hill when it happened. He claimed he couldn’t see the bike and buggy, due to the inclination of the hill and the brightness of the Sun, until he was right on top of them.
Two people. 36 and 7. A mother and her girl on their way to surprise their husband and father at work. A woman with a book buried in her soul and a calmness that could put the most hardhearted at ease. A child with a mouth full of baby teeth, trees to climb, and feet dirty from play.
Traffic slows again, coming to a coast, as I and other dazed drivers enter Marsh Creek. I’m relieved to make it home.
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