Darkening

The simple joy of riding with good friendsin a car coming back from a barn danceon the edge of a great lake in mid-March,driving through falling snow on blizzardingcountry roads, past farms, silos, cattle barnsrecessed in deep shadows as Stand By Mespills from the radio. But on that nightour car hit black ice and skittered acrossthe road’s slick surface like a water bug— twenty-odd yards — before coming to restin a snowbank beside a farmer’s house.A man appeared out of the dark, walkingdown his laneway. He asked if anyonewas hurt. Are you okay? Seeing the carwas undamaged, he said he could tow itout with his tractor. I remember thatnight walking up the road, a hundred yardsor more, in the moonless dark, without somuch as a flare or a flashlight to wave downpassing cars, wondering why my friendsand I had survived the crash. Wonderingwhy I was not dead. I can still see myselfstanding impatiently, wind barrelingacross fields, over snow fences, the coldlicking raw the flesh beneath my jacket,trying to hail the drivers of three carsnot bothering to stop, not quite certainwhether they saw a figure half-glimpsedin the helixing snow at that late hour,a messenger risen up from the ground,to warn them of some impending hazarduntil too late they found an old tractorupon the road. And what I rememberof that night will not call back anyonefrom the past. Not the vehicles swervingto carve a wide groove in a winter fieldcrusted with thin ice and eddying snow.Not the farmer on the tractor cursing,his breath rising, a white scar, mixing inplumes of diesel smoke in the chilly air.Not even my younger self, who I seestanding roadside like an apparitionturning his body to stare back downthe dark hallway of a moment ago.