White Car There are now more white cars than ever before. Iíve only just noticed. Funny, this noticing, increasing proportionally with the length of your absence. Have I only just learned to notice? You needed freedom of movement, hence the white car. Colourless, it. Why not red for rage, for blood drawn, for betrayal, for vitriolic prose? Chameleon car a Dutch white dove, a white flag, a wartime peace offering. An unacceptable truce. Now time is measured in decibels of silence. Where are your frantic eyes? Where are my letters? Is it all gone? All of it? Everything is measured in negatives now. In lacking. In every white car without you inside.
© Lindsay Clayton Day