Summer Night’s Tale
Last night I was sitting on the porch with the lights on at nine o’clock or so. My friend had gone to a party on the Island and was coming back home then. There is an exit off Grand Central Parkway that I call The Magic Road. It is truly magical. In summer the tall trees are covered with rich green foliage that form an arch over the windy road.
In winter, the bare branches, limned with snow, hold hands overhead as you exit the highway. Snow blankets the frozen ground, as if in protection. Sometimes the shiny eyes of its inhabitants peer at you curiously through the trees. For forty years, I have made up beautiful tales about this road to tell little children.
Some of those children grew up and told the stories to their children. My friend, who was in the car with me with her granddaughter, became fascinated with my description of the road. That was perhaps eight years ago. Ever since, even though it is three exits before hers, she gets off there, crosses the Turnpike, and continues on my street wending her way home.
We were chatting on the phone this evening when out of the blues she teased, ‘Old woman with the shiny white hair, what were you doing on the porch so late last night?’
‘I was watching a film on Netflix. It was a beautiful night. The breeze was delicious. And tell me, my contemporary aged friend, what were you doing driving by my house so late at night?’ I teased back.
‘Oh, I was at a party. I got off The Magic Road. I always take your road to go home.’