300 Miles

The majority of my family resides in Iowa.
I've been to Iowa 783 times.
It's a well worn path.
When I was a kid I used to lay down in the backseat of our Buick Skylark on those long drives and just stare out the window.
I got hypnotized by the waves of telephone wires as they danced from pole to pole.
It was the closest thing to an Iowan ocean.
300 more miles.

It's still a sleepy drive.
I stopped for coffee.
I scraped bugs off the windshield.
I passed the World's Largest Truck Stop in Walcott.
182 more miles.
The Mississippi still looked mighty.
Radio stations now began with W.
Freeways turned into tollways.
155 more miles.

My anti-climactic homecoming was happening before my bleary eyes.
There was nothing I could do.
I pissed in Dekalb.
62 more miles.
The NPR preset worked again.
Traffic got selfish.
I got annoyed.
48 more miles.

I gassed up the van.
I parked it at the rental place.
I waited for Lauren.
30 more minutes.

I counted the pouch.
Still no Lauren.
I called Lauren.
Ridiculous unmarked O'Hare expansion detour.
20 more minutes.

Lauren arrived.
No A/C in the van.
Wet hugs.
Salty kisses.
I'm home.

Goodnight, Solitary Van.
You were a good van.

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed the travelblog. The only thing that could make it better would be a soundtrack. . .