on the road

Driving on I-65 is a tragedy in the making. Everywhere on the highway is somewhere for you; two miles in any direction and there is somewhere else you would rather be going.

North, past highway 30 you can find the exit to 80/94. If you follow this through Chicago, it will take you to Wisconsin, where you can sit on a dock in the dark, smoking cigarettes on the water and remember that once you were brave and daring and knew how to make things happen.

South of highway 30, you could take exit 205 or exit 215, drive down country roads remembering how it felt to be young and fierce, loved and in love.

The exit for 70 west goes all the way to San Francisco, where waits a green ashtray and a windswept balcony from which you can almost see the ocean. 70 west could take you into the city where you could find your way to highway 1, highway 101, highway 280, because any of them would do to drive south. The serpentine curves of highway 17 lead to Santa Cruz and the love that almost broke you.

70 east, 80 east, 95 north and you are in Providence, on a dark humid evening with the smell of your shampoo filling the air, wishing everything had not been broken, wishing you had all just stayed together, just this once.

74 east and you could head for Cincinnati, where someone would hold your hand on the sidewalk downtown and rub your back while you slept huddled together, comfortable knowing that you'd always at least have each other even though the distance continues to grow.

Going south, you can find highway 46, highway 7 - two hours exactly to find yourself covered by the security of the strongest friendship you've ever known.

We could explore even further south - take on the oldest memories. At some point in Tennessee or Alabama 65 south meets up with 20 west meets up with 55 meets up with 12 so you can find Baton Rouge, the remnants of your childhood and the first passions of kids trying to grow up too quickly.

Does it ever end? Can you drive any direction and not feel a tug? Will there be a miraculous day that allows you to pass an exit without turning off the stereo, without catching your breath?

You hate this highway. You hate the way it tells you that you're a different girl now. You hate the way it tells you that you are too old, too tired, too afraid to move on or move forward. You hate the way it tells you, sometimes, that you've settled.

You hate that it's all over. All you have left is the drive to work.