You can’t ask me to repeat any
of it. If it’s written somewhere
on a bathroom wall, it was
shouted at the top of someone’s
lungs. Obscenities in juxtaposition
bordering on blasphemous spewed
through windows rolled down,
birds flying from clinched fists,
horns honking, vehicles jerking
and weaving between lanes
like cruise missiles threatening
to bump and grind while every
word denoting an intellectual
deficit was projectile vomited
between us and them until
every anonymous human in
a vehicle other than our own
became them.
It turns out you only need to
be in someone else’s car to be
told to eat feces and die. Did I
mention the babies, the children
in other cars? It’s all a blur now,
a collage of fear and rage. Oh,
and pistols being brandished.
How could I have blocked out
the guns? No, this was not your
father’s road rage back when
flying the bird was the limit.
No one was shot, thankfully.
But isn’t threatening to shoot
someone merely for being in a
car other than your own a crime?
I guess it was after some guy
jumped from one speeding truck
bed to another that we turned off.
Or did I dream that?
All I know is we arrived at the
cemetery for the burial at sunset.
Pastor spoke about her life, love,
legacy, call to love our neighbor,
welcome the stranger, love our
enemy, and her favorite verses
were read:
Love is patient, love is kind.
It does not envy, it does not
boast, it is not proud. It does
not dishonor others, it is not
self-seeking, it is not easily
angered, it keeps no record of
wrongs. Love does not delight
in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts,
always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.
Pastor’s closing words:
Be love.
I dare say the only thing
louder than the tapestries of
profanity hurled between
roaring vehicles ten minutes
earlier was the eerie, deafening
silence that descended upon
us as we stood awkwardly
around her casket nodding
approvingly to one another:
That is who we are.
That is who we are.
That is who we are.
