Multiple Choice for Adrift Michigander

A.

You must arrive at the dead end of Old US 45 at midnight with a heart half empty and a tank half full. There must be no stars in the sky. There must be snow in the car. Let every regret surface. Grow feverish and weep. List every positive outcome your choices revoked. This is how you call the light. You will catch it in the rearview mirror.

 

B.

Wait for the windshield to fog—bellow opera or fuck or bend close and breathe on the glass to speed its misting—then use a finger to smudge out a triangle through which to see with your better eye. Light can only enter where dark is erased.

 

C.

First, believe repetition is the best aid to memorization. Second, believe time erases memory. Understand this is why spirits linger. Third, trust your eyes over any other part of your body. Understand the light is trying to burn these lessons into your marrow.

 

D.

You must drive with no intention of stopping. Be your most unshakable self: Crest still on your breath after work and coffee, cotton pillowcases and a beloved at home waiting, no rattle of loose change on the dashboard. The light arrives like God—when you would beg it not to.