Crashbox

Sitting outside on the hood of my brother's beat-down BMW under the orange glow of a streetlamp I taste the bitter-sweet smoke of a Nat Sherman Black & Gold and talk to a dear friend on the phone. It is very reminiscent of another phone call from the hood of a car not so very long ago; but then there was pain, intense pain, and the sinking feeling of real loss as our words faded, empty, lost in the boiling summer heat. This conversation, however, was comfortable, caring; a simple sharing of life, and the ease that comes from real understanding. The night air is chilly and my sock-covered toes wiggle to keep warm. The stained, rusty hood under me is comforting; reminding me that God is here, that He cares--- for this car would not still be taking me places without His mercy. Many thoughts run through my head...I complain too much. There is no real need for worry. Life always works out if you have faith; and sometimes it's strangely nice to think that in a sense you have on occasion been the 'me' in that old song, 'Me and Bobby McGee': free and homeless and down, but full of life and singing and sharing what little you do have. I crush the pretty gold butt of my cigarette on the sidewalk and hear the old graceful ballads distantly in my mind. The phone clicks softly in my ear: bedtime for all. Funny how just someone's voice can carry you through anything when you know they care...