Rob S. Friedman
January 2026
US 81
Sometime soon, it better be, as my fan belt is slipping badly at 70, I’ll be on the road to Roanoke. Northbound 81, the sun poking my shoulder, straddling the Walker and Blue Ridge Mountains.
If I time it right for whatever season, the road will rise a few miles past Blacksburg and the setting sun will push my eyes eastward into the valley, and the trees will flame without burning.
I’ll be awash, at the end, as I was so long ago, in holy light. It will raise me up, as it did so long ago, with promise and hope, vague yet powerful, and I was invincible.
I took in the sun, as the fields glinted around me, reflecting its light. But that was then. I didn’t know anything at that moment but the bliss of not wanting anything else, anything more.
Rob S. Friedman 