“I run past what I thought was the end / of myself.”

“Five years and a funeral later, I dream I’m driving across that same bridge with my mother in the passenger seat.”

by Christoffer Relander

So happy to have “Nocturne” in the latest issue of Union Station magazine. Here’s an excerpt:

Five years and a funeral later, I dream I’m driving across that same bridge with my mother in the passenger seat. A bright, cloudless afternoon, music is playing on the radio and the windows are rolled down. My mother keeps waving her suddenly wild hair out of her face. We are laughing or, at least, I hear laughter.

The bridge is different in daylight; under this bright sky, the bridge does not end. Driving at 40 miles an hour, we have been crossing this bridge all day, but mother does not notice. She keeps waving strands of hair out of her eyes and switching radio stations. Music is playing but I can’t hear the music. The bridge keeps going and, with one hand still on the wheel, I reach over and touch her hand.

I put my hand back on the wheel, but the part of her hand that I touched turns an iridescent blue, tinged with green. Soon, a peacock stain marks where I touched my mother and we stare at each other.

This is how I know she is dead.

She tries to apologize, but I look back at the road ahead and press down on the gas. The bridge just won’t stop.

Go here to read the rest.