Born to Run

I try to squeeze too much into the hours when my children are at school. Some architecture, some writing, some laundry, maybe even a head start on dinner. Seductive denial whispers in my ear, “You know what? You can get that proposal done by 10:15, then you’ll have an hour to design that guest room, and another thirty minutes to tackle Mt. Laundry in the den.”

Fast forward to twenty minutes before my son’s noon pick-up time.  My hands violate the upper rack of the dishwasher searching for a sippy cup lid for his milk. I always have a warm cup ready for him when he gets in the car—the magic elixir that transports us home in peace.

As I drive to his preschool, I catch the last ten minutes of Diane Rehm. Her guests are wrapping up. I try to decode the show’s topic. It’s a guest host, the one who sounds like the Daily Feed guy. Out the window I enjoy the controversial new road that’s just opened after years of construction. Its chi feels clean, unmarred by accidents, roadkill, even speeding tickets.

Fifteen minutes later I’m back on the new road, headed in the opposite direction with my sweet boy. I look at him in the rear view mirror. He’s asking if we can we put on some kids’ music. But now Terry Gross is on, and she’s talking about Bruce Springsteen. I want to know what craft my son did at school, and what he had for snack. I also want to hear Terry and the Boss. What did she say? I turn it up. My son complains. A filmmaker says “Born to Run” was a wall of sound.  My boy kicks off his tennis shoes. They drop to the floor like anchors. I notice the corten steel guardrail along the new stone bridge. Its rust croons of switchback roads in Colorado. Terry says that Springsteen’s spare and maudlin “Darkness on the Edge of Town” is being re-released tomorrow. Someday, I think, I’ll hole up in a resort somewhere and listen to Fresh Air podcasts back to back, no interruptions. But I place myself in the floral-print hotel room and it’s lonely. After a show or two I long for my children’s fingers curling around mine. I reach towards the back seat. Without looking I know where my arm should hover to be within my son’s reach. At the red light, I turn the radio off and clasp the warmth of his hand.

The dogs on main street howl,
’cause they understand,
If I could take one moment into my hands
Mister, I ain’t a boy, no, I’m a man,
And I believe in a promised land.

-Bruce Springsteen, “Promised Land,” from “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”