Old photographs fill the pavement between glimpses of the road, stolen from the storm by windshield wipers at high speed. And I drive

through the rain picking through memories scattered like high beams in the evening fog. She twirls through those memories, a parade of cameos in a silent movie, black and white,

grainy as the songs that flicker at the edge of the broadcast signal. Classic rock, classical symphony, and a talking head playing the rusty strings of Bible verse, all fight for clarity.

And in that static one song plays, bursting through the mind’s photo album straight from childhood wonder into the still quiet of fatherhood.

Where my wife wraps her in the ambiguous white linens, smiling a full-toothed smile, a cobblestone path to my little girl, who hoola-hoops around guard rails and hop-scotches over the double yellow. I follow her

Puma puddle jumps until footfalls fade into dry pavement. My windshield wipers hum against the blonde strands of dawn, kneading shadowy rainbows into the clouds, as she fades into the distant mountains.

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