By Jen Ashburn
Featured Art: Sunset, Oxford by George Elbert Burr
I was driving. The sky was pink with sunrise or sunset.
The road banked left. We drove straight—through the guardrail
and over a valley with gray houses stacked on a hillside.
You were so calm. I didn’t understand at first that we would die.
This was much worse than forgetting to pay the phone bill.
Then you were driving. The car soared. We looked out the windows.
Around the houses, people trimmed hedges and hung laundry.
You changed gears. I don’t remember the landing. I think
there was music. We held hands. I’ve never understood
forgiveness, but this is what it must feel like.
Jen Ashburn is the author of The Light on the Wall (Main Street Rag, 2016), and she has work published in numerous venues, including The Writer’s Almanac, Pedestal, and Whiskey Island. She holds an MFA from Chatham University and lives in Pittsburgh.