On Driving Home at Night

After a very busy, seemingly endless ER shift tonight, I was left irritable and cranky from not having had my dinner and not having a chance to relieve myself all evening. I stepped out of the hospital and faced the black night. I noticed beads of drizzle landing softly on the tops of cars parallel parked along the curb, and there were patches of damp pavement, in some cases adorned with flattened cockroaches that probably got in the way of someone's footsteps.

The trees were swaying with life, and I remembered this Indian comic book I used to read in which the village fool thinks that proof of life in trees is how they sway in the wind.

Somehow the night can be incredibly calming. I expected to have an irritable and cranky ride home that would surpass my irritable and cranky shift, but instead it made me feel better.

I ignored the smell of latex gloves that lingered on my fingertips and began to reminisce on my way home, such as my first drive to Hughes Spaulding: I was with my parents and we wanted to see how long it would take me to get to work from my apartment. I passed the apartments on my right that got damaged in the tornado - just a few days earlier one of my patient's mother's came to my clinic wearing a "I survived the Atlanta tornado" t-shirt. She had been 10 months pregnant when the tornado hit and now her child was 7 months old and almost crawling. I passed the blinking red light along the train tracks of the MARTA train, which reminded me of nothing in particular, but was a part of my daily route that never failed to draw my attention. I passed the one spot on my route during which the trees seem to reach for the sky a bit more, and they seem to feel a little bit more dense and lush than the trees on other parts of the route. I crossed the train tracks that always jostle the tires of my Civic. And then I arrived home.

There was nothing special or unusual about my thoughts tonight, but I loved how observing these familiar sights in the middle of the night, without anyone else passing me on the street, made me more observant, more appreciative. Even though it was 3:45 in the morning, the night heightened my senses.

This also reminded me of the Robert Frost poem "Acquainted with the Night," and how differently I felt tonight than the lonely, isolated speaker does in that poem. It was reciting that poem in class, along with the rest of the class, and appreciating the intonation and consonance that led me to love words and become an English major in college, one of the best decisions of my life. Yes, tonight, I became more acquainted with the night on my drive home, but it gave me a sense of peace.