It was getting to be evening. Eight-thirty or nine or so, I don't much remember, because time wasn't on my mind.
What I do remember is that I was nestled in dark, driving on a two-lane country highway. It was a straight stretch, nothing curvy or hilly or difficult to navigate. No cars around.
Which was why I followed the impulse and took my glasses off.
The road blurred; I could see only that it was illuminated by my headlights.
First there was discomfort. This isn't what good, safe drivers do. This doesn't keep me aware, ready for one of those populous deer, or some other animal, or a parked and watching police officer who catches me crossing over the center line.
I couldn't even see the numbers on the speedometer, my vision is that bad.
But then came liberation. Liberation. I felt it from my hands, as they held the wheel, to my feet, near the pedals.
Because I knew where I was going. And I trusted myself, and I trusted what is bigger than me. I trusted the moment. It came to me that nothing bad was going to happen.
Actually, something good happened.
I gave up control.
And that gave me a great peace, just driving in the dark.