You leave Missouri and cross Illinois in the blink of an eye, good riddance, the Mississippi River far behind you. The scenery changes, trees begin sprouting, the temperatures rise in hesitation. The little car that could rolls through larger towns now, impatient drivers and fewer semi trucks for company. New York beckons at the other end of the continent.
This country is hellbent on kicking us out, on making us regret our choices, on rescinding our piece of the dream, but don’t you know? Clawing your way to a better life is what this country was built on. Settlers feed the machine.
I am not done with you yet, America. This heartbreak isn’t ours today.
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