Toll Road Home
There are several “worst parts” about driving across the country.
There are several “worst parts” about driving across the country.
I got to sleep eventually.
As evening settles in, the flickering light of the fire illuminates the faces of family and friends gathered around, eager to hear another story from the family elders.
Then, at some point in our spin last night, we caught our collective breath.
The scene, at first, is more akin to Jaws than Blue Planet—a silent silhouette from out of the hazy depths.
The very hard thing I am learning right now—about race, and about myself—is that the rules I have been living by are not very good ones.
Yesterday, as I was beginning to write this, a fly filled the room.
Technically my third home, but my memories begin here.
The episodes are short stories, and, like short stories, they have the boldness to be small, specific, uncomfortable, or shamelessly tender.
But I will often retrace the roads and words I’ve taken and exhale, exultant.