Road bumps

We always parked on the speed bump, our own trivial rebellion, our way of spitting on the world that so often spit on us. She had cut her hair, but instead of looking younger, it aged her. She had become a woman without any warning, an adult accepting of the unexplainable cruelties placed upon her.  I felt a sudden urge to spill the secrets, to let them spout onto her as if I were the fountain of youth capable of bringing her back from maturity. The tears, long awaited, lingered, stale, in the car full of too many memories, filtered me with hope. The miserable drag the ones they love behind them, regardless of the scars the road will leave.