Volver

A long time friend recently relocated.
Leaving home, she packed her car with the
beginnings of a life. I volunteered to ride along,
flying first to Ohio to make the drive together.
Her parents were grateful, not wanting
to leave their daughter in the lurch, but
she was an adult after all, and they had
lives to lead, aging parents to care for.

So I took off work, bought my ticket, and
arrived at the brick house blocks away from
my childhood. Her mother bounced in the doorway.
How exciting! You two will have such a time!
I smiled and waved and could not articulate
The reason for coming. The desire to sit in a close
space for two days and reenact the intimacy we
once shared, if even so literally, so coarsely.

We headed south. Stopped for gas. To eat.
Listened to music. Munched on snacks.
Discussed her new job. The merits of Houston.

And then it happened. An attempt to capture the
Mississippi resulted in a camera dropped and at last
glimpsed in the path of an eighteen wheeler.
Wide-eyed silence followed by hysterical laughter.
Stomach ache laughter. Wheezing laughter.
Pull over to the side of the road laughter.
Minutes later we gathered our wits, but the levity
persisted. Unsuccessfully, I tried to refold the map.

We no longer sit in the bucket seats of an economy
sized Hyundai, a gear shift separating us. Rather,
we lay on our bellies, sticking to the cracked leather
of the Econoline’s reclined rear benchseat.
Noisy siblings. Non-existent air conditioning. Mom
checks the map hesitantly as we share secrets and giggle.
Now we live in the same city. Synchronizing schedules,
we meet briefly amid careers and relationships.