Finding the Way Back Home

There are miles left to travel; the fields lay on either side of us, open and empty. Ahead, on the right, is a casino. Its lights flicker and echo off the dark highway road. This sign and the car headlights are all that I can see for miles.

We have taken these roads before; they are common to us, like the way a hand knows a pen after many drafts and pages. I am tired now, eyelids droop with the heat of the car and the smooth sound of tires on pavement. Often, when driving these country back roads, I have pondered my future. In ten years, will I be coasting these streets again, listening to sentimental Toby Keith and rubbing my pregnant belly? Will I be clad in pointed black heels, toe tapping on the edge of a Los Angeles curb, waiting for the cab that will take me back to my high-rise apartment? Will I be far from here, from this place, from these roads?

The radio station changes and fills the car, shaking the door handles and seats. The lyrics are about love; the singer describes his lover as having ‘eyes like the moon’. There is no moon tonite, or else it is behind us. Last night it was white and round and I had watched it as we drove. But tonite the moon is silent, as silent as I, as we travel these roads, silently praying to find our way back home.

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