It's The Way We Wander

It was the kind of cold that when you took a deep breath it almost made you cough as your lungs filled with such an opposite temperature so quickly. The clouds were coming over the top of the mountain like the fog moves over the hills in San Francisco. But I was in Wrightwood. Straight, sun browned trunks in straight lines along the curving roads. One lane in each direction; warning signs that instruct not to pass. The brown lines of wood are set in motion with the angled green branches. A squadron of "V's" from head level to the heavens. I saw all of this as I was driving away from Nathan's aunt's home yesterday.

Driving on the 2, it links all the way down the Angeles Crest to Glendale. (But I think it's closed now) Glendale, a place of birth and life for a time. A brief visiting ground for my friend, Tricia and her grandmother. I was going the opposite direction. My destination was the 138, a link between Cajon Pass and Palmdale. The sun was out enough for me to put on sunglasses, but it swiftly faded to gray clouds and a light mist as the 138 merged with the 15 South. I was playing my "Holiday Driftaway" CD. For a time I was belting out the words, "Give me the beat boy and free my soul, I wanna get lost in your rock n' roll and driftaway." Felt good. (I might have been singing on key too)

Instead of taking the 15 to the 91, I decided on the 60 FWY. Probably a smart move with people returning home. I was able to glide all the way through Chino, Hills, Diamond Bar, down the 57 into Brea and all of Orange County. Rain started up again for a few miles, but cleared by the time I reached the 5FWY. Southbound, I was almost home. Almost freed from my freedom.

On x-mas day I spoke with my Mother, Sarah, Byron & Philip on the phone. I told them that I loved them. They will always be my blood. I spent time with Nathan and Randy. I hugged Eddy and Wes early after the midnight masses had ended.

Tsunami. Tsunami of love blankets the earth every xmas. I wish it would envelop people with more regularity. Either to wash them clean, or fill them with something that they lack.