Weathervanes

It's 1975, I'm 17, I'm in the back of a 1970s estate car travelling 70 miles per hour on a beautiful day; I tilt my head back and close my eyes, singing the song I have stuck in my head:

"I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger"

And my mother, driving, joins in. We have the windows wound right down and the air whips through the accelerating car, making circles around us, messing up our hair. The road is long and straight and the day is young and we have far still to go.

*****

It's 1995, I'm 37, I'm driving a 1980s car, beat-up, low on petrol (no money since my husband left), at 35 miles per hour on a rainy day; I open the window only to close it seconds later due to droplets of rain on the dashboard.

My children are arguing over a packet of crisps. I tell them to be quiet, turn the radio on, an old song from the 70s; I listen intently to the words, sounds fighting off other sounds, try to dissolve into the melody.

Gradually the kids stop arguing, things become quiet. And later I fall asleep quickly, silently, and dream of nothing.

When I do dream, it is of a long, open road, or a tiny house, the wooden roof flanked by weathervanes.

******

"For centuries weathervanes have kept people in touch with the elements, signalling those shifts in the wind which bring changes in the weather."

******

It is 2010, I'm 52, my children have left home, I've quit my job, I'm in America, behind the wheel of a station wagon.