Ode to Rock and Roll
On a cool morning I helped my friend Bob collect rocks for his garden. We drove his pick-up to a rain-rutted road off the highway and rode a quarter mile, sheer wall on one side, sheer drop on the other, to the top of a mountain.
First we huffed and hefted, stumbled and cursed the two-man rocks. Then we hugged the one-man rocks to our chests like teddy bears. Finally, we filled the gaps with one-hand rocks until the bed sagged as if the truck would tip up on its tailgate.
No room to turn around, Bob, eyes flitting side-mirror to side-mirror, backed the truck down that rutted road. The radio blared rock-and-roll, blared the Rolling Stones. Oh, children. It’s just a kiss away, kiss away, kiss away.
I knew what the song said. The precipice is a kiss away. Death is a kiss away. It’s always just a kiss away. In the seat, eyes closed, dust and sweat coated my arms and chest, seatbelt flapped against my shoulder, I smiled. Oh, children. I was not afraid.