To slow down, to surrender.
But for my darling, it’s not just this stretch of road.
It's the direction we’re travelling in.
Toward the darkness, rather than away.
Toward takes twice as much courage.
This vast distance he fought so hard to put between him and his shadows is now decreasing, safe proximity shrinking.
And with that, a sense of powerless submission seeps in.
Beneath this red dirt brew memories of pain and abandonment.
Lines and scars across skin, not just acreage.
And I hold both truths in my hand.
The freedom.
And the chains.
???
Turning the page again, I sketch Marco at the wheel. My precious man.
Urban haircut, designer shirt.
Framed not by skyscrapers or city lights this time, but against a backdrop of the wild rugged land he once belonged to.
This brave angel is facing every demon he once fled from.
Reclaiming his power with every road sign and town we pass.
Sam would be so proud of him.
Beth and Porter too.
I know his face by heart, I’ve memorised every inch of him.
And yet as I shade each strand of hair, every eyelash, I find myself in awe.
I hold the sketchbook on an angle so he’ll think I’m still drawing landscapes.
But I fail at stealth with every stolen glance.
“What?” he grins. “You keep looking at me. Have I got something on my face?”
“Not yet,” I flirt. “But you might later.”
“Don't make me pull over, cos I will,” he chides. “Wait. Are you drawing me?”
“Maybe.”
“Amos, stop. You know it makes me shy.”
When he calls me by my first name, I know I’m in trouble.
