She was like that car. You know the one. The one that catches your eye and attention differently from the hundreds of others you see and forget while driving that lonely expanse of interstate. No, this one sticks with you, and for good reason. The one that you see time and again as the miles unravel before you only to fade out of the rearview mirror. You pass her. Later she passes you. For a few miles here and there, you appear to be traveling together, a little two car convoy. It becomes a welcome familiarity, as if you’re travel companions.
But you’re not. For all the miles you’ve traveled “together” there comes that point where you separate and one of you exits for good, for another end destination. The illusion you had of this temporary traveling partner is gone. The windblown leaves along the road remind you of the many uncertainties a traveler faces. There is a moving spirit that resides in a traveler, and it is pushed in any direction by the breeze or other spirits, just as those leaves are.
Two cars, same road, same time, different destination.