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Ride to the Airport

In the car in a downpour with my mother, driving me to the airport. The rain comes down in sheets—the other cars on the highway swerve in and out of the mist, like gorillas.

“It sure is nasty,” I say. My mom drives on silently, “I wonder if they’re going to delay my flight.” More silence, “That would be fine…I wouldn’t care. I like the airport.”

“No,” she speaks up, looking at the maelstrom of weather thoughtfully,

“You know, it’s amazing—once you get above those nasty dark low-lying clouds and storms, its all clear blue skies up there.


Aaron Lake Smith

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