At 60 you can see the skid marks on the highway.
We usually speed right over most of them, but at 60, I can spot where many start and stop.
At 60, I notice, as we slowly wind around the mountains, that Henderson County is the Home of the Apple Festival.
The cold air outside has caused the water seeping through the rock on the side of the highways to form icicles; A beautiful sight to see at 60.
Dream homes, perfectly positioned on hilltops with tree lined drives, demand attention at 60, but so do the trailers and run down shacks that are hidden by foliage most of the year.
At 60, I see that the driver of the small Honda smokes Camel cigarettes, which he lights with his car lighter, and the elderly couple from Indiana must really like owls, white ones, to be exact.
A pair of mountain goats grazing by the highway appear to nod as if saying hello as we pass them by, at 60.
The journey seems longer and the raindrops that were once dancing in circles across the windshield, have turned to ice pellets that make a faint, “ping” sound that can be heard, at 60.
At 60, we are still driving when darkness falls and black ice takes over the roads accompanied by blinding snow.
Brake lights are flashing and wheels are screeching as one driver hits the wall up ahead, at 60.
At 60, I can see the blood and tears, and hear the cries of desperation as the workers disassemble the wreckage.
Meanwhile others keep the traffic moving along at a steady pace and life that seemed so beautiful earlier,
Is ugly and ironic, as we continue down the same highway, at 60.