Hands curled lazily into my lap,
Sunglasses resting on my nose,
Headphones on at half blast,
as PR News blares so loud I’m sure the car next to us can hear it.
There’s no foot room.
My legs stick to the leather interior.
It’s not a glamourous ride,
My mind wanders
farther than we’ve driven so far,
to places that aren’t reachable by car or train
or boat or plane,
as the engine hums,
in our little black Mustang.
From my window I see unending forests,
but my head is a single tree
with branches that grow in every direction
and ask complicated questions
about things I’ll never know the answer to
until they’re right in front of my face,
in plain sight.
And we drive on.
Now the mountain view
is replaced with the sight of plains.
The world is a flat green face with haybale pimples
And pond-shaped eyes.
She’s an imperfect earth,
but she’s never insecure,
And men have worked on her through the years
To build the roads that criss cross her body.
When those men poured this concrete,
Did they know they were building pathways to getaway lands for seventeen year old girls?
When they painted these lines,
Did they know they were creating journeys to dreams?
And when those men paved these highways,
Did they know that they were allowing for millions of moments
to happen on these roads,
both happy and tragic ones,
that would be revered as the moments that led to our favorite places?
It’s not a glamorous ride,
and this road is cracked and bumpy,
but we love it.
We love it because it gets us there,
and each time we sit down for a long car ride,
we are reminded of how the puffy cloud laughter
turns to sunset smiles,
and how the tall tan grasses sway effortlessly in the breeze,
and how lush the world looks at 65 miles per hour,
and we are reminded
on our very own interstate.
Now the plains have turned to lakes
And we’ve still got an hour more
I tilt my head back against the headrest
and wait for my next arrival.