“Time moves slowly but passes quickly,” the writer Alice Walker wisely said. One moment we were in the midst of Covid, at home hunkered down, the next Julia and I are speeding down the highway of life.

And some how, within that careening car, my words flew out the window. Now I’ve slammed on the breaks, shifted the car in reverse, gunned the engine back to the site of the loss marked by the scent of thoughts and dreams, the lavender of longing, hopped out from behind the wheel, and hiked down the median and began to gather what matter.

I’d been warned that motherhood can be a beast that eats your life, but I didn’t believe its teeth could reach me. That I knew all the dark corners to hide in, me and my laptop. I knew the value of keeping my word feedings going. Well, now we all know just how wrong all my creative bravado went.

And so, it begins, again. I’m easing my 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300 Roadster on to the ramp leading to the highway. It’s picking up speed. The engine sings. The top is down. My hair, a tornado of locks, a smile spreads until the cold air chills my teeth. The wind still carries the perfume of lavender. I may have a flat tire or two, but I won’t stop for very long. Not this time. So, to all your other moms out there, creatives types, or just bored folks, I say to all you, join me, let’s ride.