driving home after a sad yet beautiful day

we took the car back to the city with the many men who somehow deposited their stories into the one guy at the wheel. the drive was about 60 minutes, but the stories spanned several lifetimes. there were people jumping off cliffs and buildings, there was french and italian cooking, some of it for hundreds of people. there were children born to many mothers. and there was a good layer of bitterness. and whenever it became too thick, the music would be turned up and any thinking could be blasted away by the smoky voice of rod stewart. the navigation system with the adjusted, seductive voice seemed to not know the way, until it became clear that it had been programmed to get lost. i think we managed to pass through all boroughs. no, we did not get to staten island. the car would go there after dropping us off. i cried when the story of the pear tree was read earlier in the day. we were in a funeral home, staring at an empty container, two boards with lovingly assembled pictures, a priest who explained who can understand the snoring of chickens, as well as a concrete wall, lit, hidden behind many edward durell stone tiles. and i did not know the english words for the prayers, so my lips were just saying them all in german, even though it is not my first language either. i remembered the smell of the priest and the two altar boys who would come to bless our apartment, or my grandmother's apartment. chickens do snore, apparently. and pear trees can not be judged by their look in one season. nothing should be. it was a sad and beautiful day. and many of the stories were probably pulled out of some old smoke.