Driveway Buddha

I pulled into my driveway. A load of groceries in the back of my soccer-mom-car,that's never seen a soccer ball. I turn off the car and pause, like mothers often do. Waiting for the moments of silence to pass until something larger than ourself lifts us from the drivers seat, forcing us back to reality. There's something about sitting in the car, in the driveway, that is calming to mothers, that unveils our inner Buddha. Like the "As Seen On TV" aisle. It is glorious while you're there. It's a place where one acknowledges the brilliant absurdity it takes to retreat in today's world. It makes me ask myself, why is it silence that makes me feel guilty, and makes me appreciate life's absurdities. Like why does it feel so good to sit in my car, in the driveway, longer than I should. Perhaps it's because it is a stolen moment when no one knows we're there. It's when silence courses through our veins. Like an addict tapping the wheel for another hit, we wait until someone notices that we're home. That we might be missed. So we wait in the driveway, looking odd. Shooting up silence. Then we wonder, if a neighbor sees me, they might start talking. So we move or act like we're on the phone. Which is pretty easy nowadays as all you need to do is talk to yourself. In your car. When you're alone. But that's not odd. I open the electric hatch to start unloading the groceries, like Buck Rogers would, if he were a not-soccer-mom.

A neighbor stops in his driveway, looking over at me as he talks to himself. My time is up. My Magic Egg timer dinging in unison to the final drips of serenity hitting the pavement. But only for now. Until the next run to Right Aid for the Automated Egg Cracker. Then I will return to my spot. In the driveway. Where I will sit. Again. Until somebody notices the silence leaking from my car and notices that yes, something is definitely odd, I am definitely shooting Buddha, and it feels so very, very good.