The question trills in a loop in his head: “Are we there yet? Are we? Are we there?” Two six-year old voices in harmony, twins, a boy and a girl.
He is driving alone on the same roads that he had with his wife beside him, the twins strapped in their seats in the back playing a game that he’d hoped would keep them busy. It was a long ride to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.
He makes himself do it, though he hasn’t seen his in-laws in years. Just makes the drive up there, just to see how many times he can safely maneuver the curves and the snow. That curve. That curve in snow.
The radio has been turned up loud to drown out his thoughts. Now, closing in on the place where it happened, he turns the radio off. Snow falls like a sky full of parachutes. Slowly sideways, landing in big splats on the windshield before the wipers sweep the bodies away.
There it is–up ahead–the spot where they went off the road. He looks down at the speedometer. Thirty. That’s just what he was doing that day.
He speeds up just a bit, holds tight to the wheel because Lord knows, he was being careful then. The car starts to slide–just a bit, just for a second–but smoothly rounds the bend and goes on. He’s made it safely through it again and he’s crying.