When New England Becomes Tolerable

Driving to Job A with a Poland Spring bottle. Empty, save for seven ounces of wine. The wine? Courtesy of France's Burgundy region and a proclivity for pouring without spilling. The audio? Provided by an NPR affiliate brash enough to change its name to something other. All in all, a perfect follow-up to a sleepless night of reading, research, and first draft writing.

A gorgeous drive. Huddled beneath a blanket of twilight and street lamps, it was like passing through someone's front yard at dawn, knowing your trespass would go unnoticed. Safe. And certain. Certain that any incursion on sleep's precious ground would be excused, forever masked by a fog of drowsy doubt and dry mouth wonder.

Few cars on the highway. Little mention of destination. And winter's idyllic visage beaming in all its glory, thanks in no small part to a half bottle of beaujolais. So off I drove, on I went. What else was I to do? All was temporary, fleeting, like pieces of a puzzle yearning to put themselves together - longing to be reborn as the whole pictured on the box. Seamless.

So off I drove, with life's great mystery comforted by jigsaw sense. Serene and logical, if only for a moment.