95

I should be driving 95 today.

We'd planned. But the plan didn't survive.

She drove 95 one day. Back in May. 

We got past six minutes. This was real.

A June Friday, I drove 95 to meet her. 

Our weekend in the middle.

Sunday, same weekend, I drove home on 95, 

had a damn stroke.

95, 55, I-84 and 93, a Gem State of miles between us. 

We Facetimed in the ICU,

me tubed up, drugged up, looking like hell.

Being apart was hell.

She tore up 95 soon after,

needing to see for herself how I was.

Fine. I was fine. We were fine. 

We hung hard.

No time in July, a recovery too.

I wasn't up for a drive on 95.

So I flew in July, right over 95.

She drove me on I-84 right to her door.

August, long and hot.

95 was quiet. 

A month of doubt.

I could tell she wanted out.

September. Let's shrink space, I said. 

Right now. 

Spontaneous drive on 95 south

meets I-84 east in Boise. 

Just a night, but damn if we didn't click. 

It returned. Feeling this again.

September remained sweet. I drove 95 again. 

We hosted a Julia Child party.

"Life is the proper binge," don't ever forget.

I drove 95 home, the last time.

The last either of us would drive 95 for this.