By the time the tornado alert tumbles across our phones, we are safely tucked into a tasting room, pretending to find notes of cherry and nutmeg in our glasses. Tree branches fold themselves across the Kentucky highway, but the sun is back before we've even reached the outskirts of town. You feel a soft drawl arrange itself at the outer edges of your tongue, feel a former version of yourself ask follow up questions and let curiosity guide you into small slivers of strangers' lives. She is not unfamiliar, she was just too far away to remember without this feeling in your muscles. The hotel concierge gives you a better room, the bartender spends an hour giving you recommendations, you remember how a smile can buy you anything if you're ready for it.
You're only on day two and already you fear the time is slipping between your fingers, fear America disappears from under your wandering feet, but it is not true, it is only just beginning to sink into your spine. When people ask where you're from, you still say the East Village, but the truth is you are from nowhere now, the truth is you are from wherever you stand in this moment. The hotel has plush robes and a deep bath tub, the sheets are crisp, the night is silent. A secret lies waiting.
You have plenty of time to find it.
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