We're always driving down the canyon. And it's usually after dark. The mountains seem closer, looming blue and tired next to the road. The moonlight smudges the sky and dims as it seeps inevitably towards the ground through the thick black night, giving only a faint glow to the aspen trees. Aspens are my favorite, and they're yours too. And they're the biggest living organism on the planet, even bigger than the blue whale.

You look straight ahead and I look out the window. I look at your profile and your hands on the wheel, and the ache in my stomach climbs my throat and bruises my lips. I say something to fill the silence. I prop my head against our two hands.

And that first time, and every time since, you told me you were going to show me something. At the most winding part of the road, you turn off the car lights. And for a fraction of a second we drive in complete blackness. The road disappears. You can't see anything at all. Then you turn the lights back on and the road, back from oblivion, is beneath us.

And I can see your profile and look out the window. Everything illuminated by the two yellow lights at the front of the car, leaving a broken trail behind us like smoke after a rocket ship.