Day one: Columbus, Ohio. Verdant fields, bubbling hills, clear skies. After hundreds of miles of smoke-filled Pennsylvania weight, we breathe a sigh of relief. I bring my plants inside, the scrappy three orphans that I could not leave behind. Impossible pasts lie behind me: two days ago, watching the movers put everything I own into a space no larger than a closet; one day ago, walking around an empty apartment, that looked nothing like the home I had made it, but reminded me of the moment we first met. I cried, and handed over my keys. Just earlier this morning, Canal street waking into its perpetual chaos, the New Jersey Turnpike twisted like a riddle it begged you to stay and solve.
The last morning on sixth street, I walked out to the river to say my goodbyes. Got caught up in a phone call, got caught up in avoiding the inevitable farewell, pounding its way toward me at breakneck speed. Lost the chance to look for clovers, but thought, just one glance, just one new patch where I've never looked before, just taking a chance where it's given.
It took me not one minute, and I found it: a five-leaf clover, perfectly wrapped around itself like a flower, or a star, or a miracle. I nodded to the river. I nodded to sixth street.
I took my five-leaf clover and I got on the road.
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