I’m sitting, with Dido and her ‘White Flag’ melody just
audible over the speakers. The heaters aren’t working, but the cooler
temperature is refreshing against my face. We’ve temporarily run out of words,
and we sit, soaking up the relative silence. The tyres blaze through the pools
of melted snow and as I sit gazing beyond the dark windscreen, the glare of
random headlights fails to smack me back into professional mode. I’ve got a
headache and, now I think about it, my throat is sore. I’m dehydrated. I sneak
two pain killers into my mouth and feel guilty for the selfish acknowledgement
of my own pain.
In the front, the windscreen wipers flash once in a while,
and I vaguely wonder if I should say something. But it’s all been said, for
now. I think we’re comfortable with our silence, and the milling over of our
missions ahead. ‘There will be no white flag above my door. I will go down with
this ship’. There isn’t any need for blue lighting, apparently. But I know
every beat of her being craves to catch up with the blue lights that went
before us. For this undocumented blissful half hour I am a mother holding
another mother. No words. We’re just
sitting, with patience, faith and an unspoken understanding.
