Westbound

We’ve traveled this road many times, he and I. It is on automatic, an urge, a duty, a need, a love. We do it for family, friends and the call from home. We take it first as a couple, and then I look back and there is a puppy strapped into the seatbelt, a toddler grasping her juice bottle, a girl with stuffed animals and smudgy art bag, closely followed by a teenager off in the remote lands of iPod.

Now the backseat is empty, waiting to be piled high with souvenirs of an honorable age. We will find his school pictures and vacation slides, beloved toys and sick-bed trinkets, ancestral war medals and a grandmother’s silver, the letter sweaters and sorority pins worn by parents gone to rest, collections of yellowed pages inscribed with a familiar hand, other ordinary pieces of past that still hold the scent of childhood.

And when we have let the sunset burn into our skin like memory, we will turn back east. Head toward the dawn.

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