Looking back, that drive was the happiest time of my life. Distant lightning flickered across the sky accompanied by low, grumbling roars of thunder. Rain, heavy and forceful, forced the wipers to run across the windshield, seemingly to the tempo of our laughter.
The heater was broken, and I remember clearly struggling to control the wheel through thick gloves. I remember your ridiculous bobble hat, wild with colour, that you bought of that kind old lady. I remember you making a balaclava out of a pair of tights and suggesting we become outlaws like Bonnie and Clyde. I remember a warmth, deep inside, despite the icy interior of the car.
Most of all, I remember being happy. At least, I remember what it was like to be happy, but I struggle to remember what it truly felt like. The memories are locked behind thick glass. I can see them, but I can’t reach out and touch them. I beat my hands bloody on that glass daily. I scream and curse and rage, but nothing ever happens.
I smashed and smashed my hands raw against the glass. Heaving with exhaustion I collapsed into myself as I always do. At that point I usually limp away to lick my wounds, but not today. Today, I decided to look back at the glass. Amidst the blood and tears I saw a crack. It was the tiniest of things. A minuscule scratch that I had to squint to see. But it was there. It existed.
It gave me hope.