The memory is apropos of nothing, but nevertheless it envelops me, shakes me, is gone: a cloud in an airplane's path.
I'm in downtown Charleston West Virginia, afire with adrenaline, the only guest in a rattling, musty B&B. Within the year, it will close, its owners tired of of the work. It's 6:00 PM, late July, and the sky plays its hand: light, light light. I've levered myself out of the car, every muscle seizing. I have driven alone for hours and hours on the Interstate, a thing that was, to me, a ribbon of fear. I have left my home state behind, for good.
My car is full of my things. At that time, they seem to me to pin me down. I have burdens, responsibilities, promises, a cheese grater and a printer. I need to find dinner somewhere in this lazy maze of river-bound streets, and I need to bring in my instruments from the car -but for a moment I lie flat on the bed and stare at the sky. I am light, light, light, though I do not know it.