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Writer's pictureTattoo Magazine

(SPRING 2021) To Race the Setting Sun | Megan Rudberg

Updated: Jan 20, 2022

I drive to the beach,

Worried that I’ve misjudged the time of tonight’s sunset,

Driver’s license propped up in my phone case as it sits in a cup holder.

This year,

I was supposed to drive to school.

I was supposed to drive my friends to get lunch,

To go downtown,

To go hiking

And biking

And swimming

And paddleboarding.

To homecoming,

To prom.

To graduation.


But the crowning jewel of thirteen years got washed down the drain with a whole lot of money and human lives and psychological wellbeing and the Kindergarteners’ crucial socialization period,


So here I am.

Driving alone, grateful, at least,

To be alive.

Paper masks, cloth masks are shoved into the glove compartment like begrudgingly loved siblings whom I fight with,

But hold a place dear in my heart deep down.


The car smells like dog, of course,

But also of hand sanitizer and sickly, floral, antibacterial refuse.

I roll down the window, feel the breeze in my hair,

Feel stagnant dog-rubbing alcohol air getting sucked out into the open

For some poor old lady to inhale on her afternoon walk.


I can see the water as I round the corner,

Pull down the car’s visor to shield myself from the sun’s viscous rays

Suspended in the waves like amber or honey.

I stop at the last octagon sign.

I usually don’t see any pedestrians here,

But I wait as a young boy walks with his grandmother,

Hand in hand across the street.


He looks the adult,

His grandmother’s eyes smiling, her free hand waving to the traffic,

Childishly being led by her grandson.

He looks impatient,

Yet something else lurks beneath his mask.

Concern, affection for the fragile woman whom he guides.

An ode to aging,

One reconnecting with her past,

Bittersweetly,

One just beginning to create the present.


I watch them cross slowly,

Then step on the gas,

Turn left, drive down the hill,

Foot carefully laid on the brake pedal.

The sun, just setting,

Greets me with a

Where have you been?

I don’t respond,

Don’t want to admit that I am rendered housebound,

Acting as if I’m ill because now it’s possible that everyone we see very well might be.


I need to protect my friends, their families, their neighbors,

Because I need groceries and the grocery store is full of people,

And I went to the dentist last month,

Didn’t I?


And people,

People are big virus buses and streetcars,

And puttering little Volkswagen bugs.

And they’re everywhere.

So we hide,

Except for the occasional mind-restoring beach trip

In cars that smell of dog,

As we race the setting sun.


I climb out of my car,

Grab my keys,

My phone,

My mask.

Zip up my jacket,

Tie back my hair.

Pat down my pockets to make sure I haven’t left...

Grab my wallet from the front seat.

Pat down my pockets again.

And then walk briskly downhill

To catch the end of another day.


As I sit in the sand,

Feet angled awkwardly in my shoes,

Whose backings are stiffer than they ought to be,

I watch the sun paint a beautiful finale.

She guides blues upwards,

Like drawing a curtain.

She drags pinks and oranges,

And an oddly hued green along the horizon.

The waves lull,

Like children put to sleep after a long day of play,

Of chasing each other around under the sun’s careful watch,

And I feel myself still.


How long until I say goodbye to the sun,

Before I’m shrouded in the darkness,

Stumbling to find my way,

Keys clenched preemptively between my fingers without her guidance?

I breathe.

Watch her show,

Watch her fingers disappear past the mountains,

Which stand like little guards to prevent me from chasing her across the sea.

I rise.

My hair, which has slipped from its band,

Gets lifted gently by the breeze.

It whispers familiar words

That comfort me little.

The show is over, the race long gone.


I walk down the beach, lost in my own thoughts,

Anxious thoughts,

Calm thoughts,

Wonderings

And qualms.

I can feel the cold setting in,

Creeping into the collar of my jacket,

And turn back towards the parking lot.


Yet,

Just as I feel the pull of home,

Of warmth,

Of light,

I see

The stars,

Winking at me.

And I feel the beginning of something

Hidden in this end.


[A farewell, with little fanfare, full of love.]


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