Did we drive by a circus train? Or was that a dream?
I thought for a moment.
There was the upturned watermelon truck. Brave swimming. There was the attic in the basement. There was the storm, the branches that blew straight in the air across the gray road in front of us, the trees that snapped, our exchanged glances, our fumble for the radio, the decision, backing the car up, winding sound, turning around, going to back to the house and finding the driveway impassable: blocked by a tree where before had been no tree. There was the wind whistling and the hurry of seat belts, leaving the car, running through the wet grass to the house, my mother standing on the front porch, opening the door as though she knew we were coming back, as though she had been there all along. Then there was a clearing, a break where we drove quietly and slowly through the upturned towns, reverent: split trees, branches in the road. There was a colt running, racing its mother and our car. There was a sad-faced calf. There was wheat. There was running into the astronomer who unlocked the planetarium. There was kettle corn. A giant basket. A rooster. A car made from computer parts and telephone speakers and duct tape that runs. Safety goggles. Science labs. A song we knew. Torrential rain. Being wet but fine. Safe. Saved. I dreamed of driving, being driven, sleeping in the passenger side in a dress and a blue blanket, soft rain and a radio. Familiar. But the circus train? I had to think. No circus train. The circus train is just a dream.