Dive in. Write about something. Blog once more. Before you forget how. 

Write about Doris Day http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFbyts_JbbA.  

Write about how you are driving on the motorway from Dublin to Galway and how you are switching stations on the radio in an attempt to ward off the boredom of, well, the motorway. How you chance upon Doris Day and how you suspect the teen might baulk, turn the dial in search of something more current but he does not, in fact, he ups the volume, emits a sigh of extreme gratification, a sigh that says we have left the big city behind us, the road beckons us home.

And so we glide into the grey October day. The rain comes in sheets. A brief reprieve and then the windshield wipers struggle to convey their role in relentless downpours of rain and the vision we set ourselves on gets momentarily lost in the chaos. We drown in Doris. Retreat into the past, drawn hastily away from the monotony of the endless road, the incessant swish of mechanics, the city streets we've left behind, the gear changes.

But these are the moments when everything is justified. When a bond comes down to a palpable silence. When the song you hear is wished to never end, for it to keep playing over and over again so one can drown in it. Forget.

You can learn a lot about your teenage son on a drive across the land of Ireland. Conversation ebbs and flows like a glorious high tide and perhaps an empty strand. And when your son points out a row of almost naked trees on the side of a bare hill and casually remarks; good photo Mom, you simply nod in response and say; you have a great eye. Yet, silently you wrap the words into your bones and skin and thank the gods. Nothing more than that.

You can say a lot of things on a car journey and still you cannot say enough. Some things don't get to be spoken and they drift like wood on the brink but that has to be good too. It cannot all be said, all revealed. There is no need when all is said and done.

Doris has a stunning voice. It is like silk. It soothes and promises and tells me we will arrive home safe and intact despite the rain and the slick road. Doris reminds me of innocent days and no expectations. It reminds me that I thought my children would never grow up.

Teen folds down the mirror from the sunshade above his seat. Inspects non-existent pimples. Groans. I smile. I cry. I cry for something before. Simple days. When nothing much caused any source of worry. When all I had was what I held in my eager arms. But tears don't last and so I wipe them away, those silly feeble tears. The teen switches stations once Doris is done sating our senses.

Coldplay. We sing along. Together. Like a duo of hope, screaming out the lyrics and soon we arrive home to a place that smells of woodsmoke and where dogs dance a tango once I open the back door  and the bog is waiting for me like a big bouquet of light and I run upstairs to grab the camera and catch the picture that drives me on. I try to capture it before it eludes me one more time, before it become like a painting I've never dreamed of seeing.