road trip“Oh, thinking about all our younger years
There was only you and me
We were young and wild and free . . .”
BRYAN ADAMS, “Heaven”
“The journey, not the destination . . .”
GREG ANDERSON
VII.
I FINALLY SLEPT ON Randy’s chest. I would always think of that as a kind of primal memory that I never knew would, in graying years, become all-consuming: but that night, in the hours before morning, I slept, my head nestled near the crook of his arm, my lips grazing the downy hair that trailed somewhere south, my forehead against the rise and fall of his breathing, and where—in my half-sleep—I could feel his heart beating. It had been frantic minutes before. Now there was only a kind of calm. And everywhere else, into the deep darkness that father’s car hurtled to, the night wind kissed
