To step inside. To walk in to a room of people that have questions, forced conversations, judgment and a vision of you that might be years old. I hold the steering wheel like you would hold on to lifesaver in a storm. This is my transitory space. I cling to these points in my life, waiting rooms of existince, mini purgatory spaces like airports, the DMV, hospital waiting room before your kid is born, emergency room waiting for the doctor to tell you your mom just passed away. These moments are clear, they are the most vivid of memories for some reason, it's probably the neutrality of it all, you are not yet changed, but are aware of the coming wildfire that is about to scorch your soul clean. Like islands dotting a blue ocean, they are the only solid ground to step on at times, that is why some of us struggle so much to step off them. It's now or never. I step outside of my truck, adjust my jacket, check my pockets for essentials and set my alarm for 45 minutes to fake call my way out of this family reunion if things get to bad. "stop avoiding shit Ed" says the stranger in the rearview mirror. I take a few steps and a large drink out of my flask and engage the smile. I knock, hopping they can't hear me because of the music. I come up with the 3 knock rule in my mind. " They don't answer on the 3rd knock, it means faith doesn't want here" ... My hand hits air on the second try, the door is open. Deep breath. I will be back on my island soon. -