Midnight Butterfly Drive

A letter to my wife.

The rain falls in sheets thick enough to blind even a hawk. 
It is cold and we drive in silence. The windows are starting to fog and she kicks on the heat absentmindedly.

She’s not the most talkative woman. Her smile is large and all-encompassing when she looks at me. She looks at me as if I’m a God, a tender reverence. Liken her unto Gaia, gentle mother in awe of child. Her eyes touch me in places long forgotten. The glint of the passing streetlights, playing along the edges of her mouth as she lights up another one passing it to me.

We drive. The road a blackened river we glide atop weaving through the rocks of 18 wheelers and wannabe minivan buses. Rain slowing to a bubbling brook. An exhale of smoke and tension. She speaks quickly as if she is in tune to the electric swing of some offbeat indie track. The crescendo and inflection Crest to pump the brakes or pick up the pace. Her voice a never-ending song, twisting smoke seemingly composed of old slave spiritual. She is that sanctuary.