Today I remembered what I believe is a moment from my childhood: sitting in the front seat of my father's car, driving on the highway. I think we were going north. Back when I was a child highways in Mexico were smaller than they are now. Most of the roads were two-way, and the grass grew tall at the edge of the road.
I remember the green of farmland as far as my eyes could go, meeting the darkening blue of the sky; the smell of the air preceding rain.
On the other side of the car, where my father sat, the sun was setting, and the sky was clear. Sunset was imminent so I could make shapes with my hands and see them projected on my side of the road.
We had a 1975 Ford LTD and the air conditioner almost never worked. We would always keep the windows open on the highway.
But what I remember the most is how well I was taking it all in. It was as if I was soaked in the world: the colors were vibrant, the smells so penetrating. I was completely open to it all. Judged nothing. Expected nothing. Worried about nothing. I was there, and the dirt was as important as my mother's long black hair. The world was beautiful and there was nothing to do about it.
My father would be humming church hymns as he drove, perhaps to calm himself down, as driving made him nervous. He had the blue sky in his voice.
