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Sympathy for a Face

Joe Chiudina

    I’ve made so many wrong turns. I’ve left lost miles ago. The mirror is on the passenger seat. My destination doesn’t appear on a map. If it did I’d probably get into a staring match with it and drive myself off into a ditch.
    My GPS continues to impatiently clear its throat.
    I was practically driven by my destination. The choking tears dream-mailed by the sandman. Prayers that screamed and begged hoarsely for an amen. An SOS that buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps.
    I decide not to face the consequences when the earth runs thin and enviably out of itself. I jam on the brakes with both feet before I go over the edge. I skid to a stop. Dust scatters for cover. I run my hand through my hair and climb out from behind the steering wheel.
    My legs almost betray me. I grip the hood until I have faith in them again.
    The face juts out from a wall of rock.
    I step-up to the edge of its forehead. I study the thick swirling mist miles below.
    It’s a long way down. I could lose my step and plummet into that thick soup. And never be heard from again. Of course, I might drop in on others who have vanished off the face of the earth.
    “Did you remember to bring it?” The face asks.
    I race to the passenger seat and return with the mirror.
    “Thank you but I have no Vanity.” The face says.
    “Wait! I can drive back and return with another.” I reply.
    “No. I can’t fool myself any longer. I’m responsible for far too many souls who have lost their way and left behind questioning, head-scratching, forehead-banging mothers and father and uncles and aunts and cousins and brothers and sisters.”
    “But maybe you can bring them back?” I shout as the forehead crumbles and breaks apart and the cheeks trail down in baby-avalanches. The mouth and the eyes are the last to go.
    “I can’t face myself in a mirror.”
    And the face of the earth disappears off the face of the earth.

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