Wayfaring is just kidding ourselves

We took roads west like it was a thing, like there was some solution in the sore backs and truck stop coffee. We bought maps when we got there, slipping into those states that were cut into squares like brownies. New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, Utah, whichever ones came our way. If we liked the name of the town we went. That’s how we saw Ruidoso and Tuba City and Shipwreck and Zuzax, which some weren’t worth the trouble.

We ran up the mountains to be close to the sky. We ran down them again, rushing into valleys and canyons. We ran from the city, and the further from it we were the more lost and alone we felt. We didn’t say it to each other. I didn’t even know what she thought, really, I just liked thinking that I could speak for us this way, like we had some shared poetry in our hearts.

We drove through new suburbs raised out of the scrub, houses like the ones back east, unacceptable to nature for not being worn out and beaten by the wind. We drove through the self-imposed mockery of Native America. We drove through national parks. We drove through all these places while the shadows played like children on the hills.