Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.

Dreams of the Borderland

Liberation

I awake on the day of my journey to find the world encased in ice. In the now brilliant sun, all

things glitter in every direction, immobile, crystalline, fragile.  I have a long way to go, but so have

others before me this morning, and the roads are already mostly clear and dry.  A storm has spent

the night at exactly the right temperature to coat everything in its path with ice, everything for all

the hundreds of miles that I travel down the interstate.  For hours I am able to enjoy the same

view, because I know it cannot last. 

Every tree, every

blade of roadside

grass, every sticker

bush and weed is

finely detailed in a

hard clear shell.  Long

icicles hang from the

eaves of old farm

houses, nearly

piercing the ground. 

Whole trees and large

branches have

crashed under the

weight of ice,

scattering on impact

on the shoulder of the

road.  Derelict cars

and trash cans, sheds and bicycles, swing sets and dish antennas all gleam brightly, equally

ennobled by the blue sky.  A fine spray rises under the tires of the truck in front of me, softening

the immediate view.  I roll the window down to breathe the keen frigid air and smell the salt that

has liberated the road.  I revel in the sparse traffic and the general stillness of the day. I am

inspired by the brightness of sun and ice.  I imagine children in their red stocking feet pressing

their button noses to frosted window panes in every house I pass. 

I am reminded that I take snapshots of certain momentary emotions and make them more

significant by constant recall.  My revisited attention endows a false glamour on these memories. 

This unnecessary constancy  cannot be sustained if I am to move further, inspire, be inspired,

grow. I will sometime soon release my heart from my own re-actions and flourish as a saltier,

more fluid being, free from rehearsing the past.

I pull off the highway to a gas station and market. Inside fresh coffee has been brewing.  I inhale

the fragrance thankfully.  My glasses immediately fog up, so off they go.  Still, the world is not so

clear through my eyes.  I am tired from the strong glare on the ice, from the morning's new habit

of squinting.  The store clerk has a kind face, and waits patiently for my decisions. "You would be

amazed at how many things we really have here," she says in a gentle twang. "We have nearly

everything you could possibly want." I nod, smiling at the shelves and racks full of snacks and

groceries. I am inspired to look for something unusual, new to me.  I weave through the short

aisles and stacked crates of two liter bottles.  A good day to buy sunglasses, I think, and try on

several pair, but I can't really see how I look without my prescription glasses and the little tag

dangles down the bridge of my nose.  I find myself laughing as I briefly consider putting on both

pair, realizing that I may never have the luxury of a clear view of myself.  I settle on a silly clip-on

pair to fit over my prescription, which I dislike because the clip sticks out like little antennae above

the bridge of my nose. 

I cannot perceive myself without some tolerance for the absurd, but this is nothing new.  There

are really no surprises in the store either.  I scout for a map of the area.  I sip coffee and open the

numerous folds of green and yellow paper to locate my position on the interstate.  I am here. 

Here appears to be nowhere, but I am on the way to somewhere.  Loved ones wait for me, but for

now I am enjoying my funny antennae and the glittering, sunlit day.