I can’t stand radio talk shows in the early morning hours. God dammit, it’s 9 A.M. Give me some time to dream.

I hit the dial to stop the raucous. To stop the discourse, the confusion, the madness, the steady hand of God. And I dream.

I try to, at least.

The sun is out, the weather cold, my bones creaking along to a tune of attempt. I turn onto 29th and let the steering wheel slide along under my fingers — around and around and around again. The steering wheel is sticky and cracked and smooth and feels clammy under my fingers.

The gas pedal beneath my foot, the radio silenced, I’m reminded of years. Of months. Of days that felt like yesterday, like today. I’m reminded of the beauty of the world: that which is most ugly. The taste of ripe strawberries, juice and seed; the smell of a resentful hand, thorn and remedy; the sound of a loving friend, time and stone; the touch of grief. I’m reminded of fast food. I’m reminded of faster sex. I try to remember, at least.

So much input over so much time, and I’m happy to feel the steady hand of the steering wheel rolling around and around and around again as I turn onto Troost. Tires on pavement, rolling around and around and around again — a slow decay, a scattering of leaves.

My seatbelt alarm starts dinging. I stare at the blinking light.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Beside the blinking icon, a picture. A photograph that feels like the creak in my bones. God knows what year the photograph was taken but yesterday was like the week before which was like the month before which was like the year before which was like the decade before and so on and as I turn off of Troost, the steering wheel slides along under my fingers and I’m wondering if the aluminum bars on that slide also felt sticky and cracked and smooth and clammy under her fingers.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

The sun feels warm on her skin. The grass, brittle. The trees, who cares.

That’s the face of someone who tastes strawberries.

I shift my ass in the seat and twist my spine until the vertebrae no longer feel the pressure of existing. Ahh — that’s nice. That’s like a strawberry. A friend. A steady hand. God?

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

The repetition doesn’t bother me. Sometimes, I’m just happy that something in this world feels the weight of who I am.