NormBlog

on a cold and windy morning, a mother and her son were driving. she had been crying. he didn’t know why. they were using the old state highway instead of the interstate. it had snowed the week before, so by this time, the roads were clean but lined with a black and gray stripe of rock-hard snow, which mounded up toward the road blending back into pure white. it was cold and the heater in the car was having a hard time keeping the boy warm.

she started crying again. it was a quiet kind of weeping, never really climaxing into sobs. her shoulders would convulse a few times and she would sniffle a little and tears would run down her face. she would wipe them away with the back of her right hand, turning her head slightly to the right when she would wipe away the tears from her left cheek and then more significantly to the left when she go the right cheek.

it’s a funny thing, knowing your mother is crying but also knowing that she is trying to keep this from you. the boy was sophisticated enough to keep his eyes facing forward. he could smell her tears, an odor of wet and salt and mucus. it was faintly sour smelling. when the car’s heater struggle more than usual, say, going up a hill or accelerating quickly, the smell would travel to the boy’s nose in the crisp air of the car.

far off to the right, something glinted in the morning sun. this drew the child’s interest. he turned his head to keep his eyes on the object through the passenger door’s window. whatever it was was climbing into the sky, leaving a white, cloudy trail in its path. the trail wobbled across the sky at first before stabilizing into a straight line. after about a minute, the object turned and moved out of the boy’s sight. he moved closer to the window and craned his head down and around to keep it in his sight but the roof of the car was blocking his view. with his finger on the window, the boy traced the trail from the horizon to the top of the window.