Catharsis

By Kristin Davisson

I drove home fast because it was late and I felt like I was being chased. I felt like someone was following me, someone, myself. Finally home, I stood outside the car and paused. It was cold, my hands, the air touching my body. I listened to the hum of cars at the intersection. A windchime on Joe’s porch. I looked up and saw a few stars, tiny dots. Tiny dots that I cannot understand, just like the street and the cars and the lamps and the bells. I smiled, laughed a little, and sighed. There is no god.