Pennsylvania disappears like an ocean of bad drivers and pricey turnpikes, you grumble all the way to the East Coast but find a parking spot around the corner from dear friends and spend a night on their Philadelphia pull-out. A toddler wakes you in the morning before you race the last few miles to the Verrazzano-Narrows and slide into a Brooklyn side street, all the plants intact and a giggle bubbling in your chest. You love the country, but the Manhattan skyline is what lets your soul rest at last.
There's no road map yet for solving that equation.
But you're not about to stop trying.
You came two thousand miles across the country, did you bring the dark Word, or did you merely bring the Wow, is it you who are angelic or is it the road you leave in your wake? I am already nostalgic for a roadside inn in Nebraska, for a styrofoam coffee and a thousand unknown miles ahead, for counting cars on the New Jersey Turnpike and remembering the America I already found, time and time again, trying to see it beneath the thick coating of this dark black cloud.
We are still here, America. We are trigonometry that refuses and easy solution.
But we're not about to stop trying.
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