By late morning, you drop her at the airport, a surreal farewell in a strange town, days of incessant chatter abruptly turned to silence along I70. A playlist has been prepared for you, lovingly left waiting for a time when the car would have room for it, when the road would be hundreds of miles before rest. A retired couple at a truck stop marvel at your travels, but you don't understand quite while. At last sunset trickles across the highway and the car slows to a stop, somewhere in Missouri, four states later. You wonder how to make the most of the stillness, but all that appears is words.
The adventure is upon you, now, America at your feet and everything you own in an old station wagon somewhere in the Midwest. You feel your lungs stretch, your mind wander. It seems too good to be true,
but I'll take it.
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