Driving back from work I cut in front of a car to make the off ramp that would take me home. I saw a face in in the rear mirror: weathered woman, about 50, smoking a cigarette and swearing at me. She continued cussing at me as we entered 147, and wouldn’t let up until she finally passed me on the highway. Again that weathered face… alcoholic, bitter… this big mugging, sarcastic face. Driving a beat up Buick Skylark with all its paint baked off from the sun.
We tend to preserve the memory of our lost loved ones in some idyllic and angelic time capsule. They were perfect, and they would have surely gone on to greatness if they had not been cut down too early to realize their magnificent potential. But this weathered woman – that face – that too could have been Theresa. Maybe she was spared from the mundanity and monotony of life. Hey 19, keep your dreams forever.