Rescue remedy

The road is long. It is windy. And soon, I'll have to stop for gas,

I'd almost forgotten about the tin: A somewhat marvelous yellow container purchased on impulse at the recommendation of a friend and tucked into the side pocket of my car door. It still contained a handful of pillow-shaped capsules -- pastilles as they were labeled -- that claimed to safely and naturally alleviate stress, and that I'd imagined were a mixture of sorcery and snake oil.

Of course, I do not believe in such hocus pocus. Not even at the price I'd paid, which, by pre-inflationary standards, was well above the threshold at which manufacturers understand that unmet claims would need to be properly reimbursed. But I bought the citrus, honey-flavored bonbons nonetheless and then promptly forgot all about them after an initial taste test made me worry the remedy might instead lift the enamel from my teeth.

But then Election Day happened. And the blathering of talking heads for days, weeks, and months as a lead-up wore on me. Their voices were like knives, my focus strained from the convergence of all the refractive screens in my general orbit. I start to become like stone. My hands clench a little tighter and my shoulders inch a little higher, especially as I drove myself to various errands and to mild distraction.

I was afraid for it to be over. Afraid of the landslide that would annihilate everything in its path.

I dipped my hand into the door gap and felt around for the circular tin. I shook it, listening for the satisfying rattle of tiny lozenges. Still there.

The sound it makes as I open it is loud and percussive. It feels like a drum beat. When pressed, the lid of the container echoes as it pops loose. Pushing in against the rim from both sides fixes the lid back into place with more of a metallic snap. I repeat the process in what I imagine to be 2/4 time. 

Anyone listening might disagree. The incessant popping and snapping could set their teeth on edge or make knuckles white. I wouldn't blame them for being annoyed to the point of explosion because of my tin beatbox pulsing atonal jazz.

I notice then that the box has shifted and a cascade of candied gels has spilled out into my lap. I realize the package's entertaining engineering requires two hands.

I abandoned all sense of order, took a deep breath, fished a pill out of my pants, and popped it into my mouth. It tasted like honey-sweetened nothing. Chewy, honey-sweetened nothing.

I take another deep breath and wait for the promise of soothing natural botanicals to wrap me in its blanket of calm as I keep driving.

There are so many miles yet to go. I roll down my window to let the unnaturally warm breeze clear the air. And just keep breathing. And I keep opening and closing the now empty tin with the beat of music on the radio.

Eventually, I realize I AM calm. 

I don't need the remedy, but maybe I'll just keep the tin.