The road is a flat gray sheet, leading to nothing. It is a wet illusion. I see fresh, flat rain above the pavement. It’s a trick of the eyes, I know that. Miles of road, and clean oscillating puddles that disappear when you approach. The heat, Lord, the heat, it pours down the way that rain should pour. There’s grimness in such a hard wide sky. You wouldn’t think so when you’re sitting on your porch and watching the day tramp through the front yard. But miles of a liar road, and a person can hardly see themselves; they’re hidden in their own life. There is my grief.
From the forthcoming novel, A Very Tall Summer — coming soon.