Silent Was the Mightiest Sound

She drove in the morning in veil-like fogs, hair whipped in a stream of windows, cracked. Like slick, black snakes, her leather skin faced days, days, and yet more days, with a cigarette lit so her red embers glow in the dimness. A puff from her nostrils, another from her lips, her trembling hands subside on the wheel, save for two fingers with a smoke-stick stuck between them. It wasn't the hum of the engine, or the rasp in her breath. No, it was her silence that taught us mostly, ours and hers alike. When days, days, and more days passed, silent was her sound, and it was the mightiest sound of them all.