Another four-hundred miles disappear under the station wagon's relentless gait, the American Southwest unfolding like a greeting card ahead of you. The red rocks tower around the little townhouse where you pull in, retired neighbors immediately checking in to see if you belong there. It's a hundred and five degrees and you are as happy as you've ever been, even though not a single cupboard hides a coffee maker.
It's been nine years since you went on the first of these trips. It's been 30 years since you made friends with the strange boy who gave you a Book and changed your life. Your whole life has been a series of puddle jumps around the good word, and at the end of it when they ask what you'll remember you know it's this. One day a boy gave you the word, and it carried you across oceans and through decades.
One day a boy gave you the word,
and in turn it gave you the world.
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