Frail form renounces me to the backseat, I depart in guilt. Driving down caffeine highways in nicotine covered miles, the neuromuscular cocktails provide relief from the trailing grief of my broken grandfather. He was put into the hospital only days ago with asthma, pneumonia, emphysema or lung cancer. A hospital full of questions and I leave the city with everything but answers. This vehicle full of strangers on a journey fabricated out of similarities. Sabbatical for a writer’s conference. Staring at the blurred street signs, a loose smile etches across my face at my wayfaring companions. Mile markers speed by, melted deserts turn into swirls of fog lines and drowsiness fades the image of the disillusioned man. The icteric sand transforms into rubicund mineral foundations. Mazarine skies deviate into suggestive obsidian nightmares of clown machines and ceramic doll factories. Cold air drifts flakes. Serenity.

Moab brings us closer, but I sneak off for phone calls in search of resolution. COPD, respiratory failure, hallucinations, still no answers. Friends feign interest as to not ostracize me for my lack of enchantment. Distraction found in music that makes the rocks blush with humanity or humility or absurdity. Conversation surges with forced brotherhood, camaraderie made possible by proximity. Ogden greets us diamond frosted. Historic hotels breathe sighs of relief when golden lions welcomed us home, and for a short moment I felt like an alchemist.

Global positioning systems guide us on a tour of locations to release inhibitions. Search for liquid colloquy, shot-for-shot confession and cosmopolitan dialogue. Nourishment stalks behind, a new commission arises. Poor college students in discount grocery stores. Super Savers. Super sales. ‘Jim’-Big. Carl saves. Dropped items and dented hunger reprieve. Cheap fulfillment and frightening expiration dates, soup of words, letters soaked in condensed chicken water. Spelling out promises that we will go unharmed. The liquor, three-two beer in cans and bottles. Spent income. Coffee cups without coffee.

Room numbers three-oh-nine and three-oh-one. Short carpeted trek, sexes separated by yards and space and doorframes. Distance gapped by lyric and rhythm and written word. Guitars, bad handwriting and poetry. The cause of my grandfather’s infirmity, cigarette smoke cues shame in contentment. But soon malt courage evaporates those reflections to rear lifelong memories. Contemporaries united by talent or passion or luck. We are all here for the same reason. None of us are here for the same reason.