Thanks to God, and a blanket of snow,
the Snohomish Pass was closed.
I took a wrong turn because
I’d never had it in me to see
the right side of me.
I was out of gas and willing to chill
in a cabin without heat before the fate
of meeting Joslyn’s parents sank in.
No vacancy signs blinked over hotels.
A man offered me shelter
in a cabin that a family rented.
I could stay until they showed up.
Our signal lost connection,
so I needed to figure
out where to go next.
But if I remained in this car,
Joslyn’d bury me frozen.
For all I know, this could be the cabin
where we’d meet for the day.
I reach into my pocket for a cancer stick.
I placed it between my lips
and lit the smoke.
I took several drags
and stared at everything
and nothing at all.
I pictured this cabin as a home
that I could make with Joslyn.
I exhaled a cloud of anxiety
through my nostrils.
I shifted my gaze to view
a tan couch in the corner.
Even with my deadweight,
I sectioned off a room in this cabin
where she’d watch her Chicago Bears
play, winning some losses over wins,
oblivious to how in love I am with her.
I blew into my hands
and then looped my arms
around my chest.
I saw my breath before
I heard the words
that I struggled to complete.
Cars crunching in powdered snow grew louder.
I spliced the blinds.
Joslyn and her parents arrived.
Sometimes, I’m right.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth.
I was right about Joslyn.
I took a right turn.
She asked how I reached the cabin first.
I told her she was right.