As my heavy eyelids open, I immediately look out to identify the scenery around me. After two years of traveling, the landscapes begin to slowly blend together. The red ground tells me I’m in Arizona. No, it’s too flat. Arizona has miles of towering mountains that make you feel tiny in comparison. It must be Utah. No, there’s way too much green. Utah is so red you feel like you could drown in it. It’s New Mexico. New Mexico has seemingly endless roads of nothing that rarely lead to any place of significance, but it still manages to enchant you. If I look hard enough, I can see the peaks of red mountains off in the distance of the open road, with nothing else but dirt. I’m in the passenger seat of a beat up 1962 VW convertible. The cracked,
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Belonging to everyone and no one all at once. The last thing she ever said to me was to find what she never did: freedom. Born and raised in small town Montana, my mother lived the life that was assigned to her at birth. She went to school, helped her mother at home, and at the age of 18 was married off to a local man who she was expected to immediately love. She used to tell me that love was a choice. When she decided to love my father, she did it with all her heart. Still, I could tell her mind wandered to other lives she could have lived. My father was a man who was content with a simple life. He held a job as a manager at the local bank and brought home just enough money every day to keep food on the table and his wife in her place. When he was laid off, he blamed my mother. She was too weak, didn’t take care of the home well enough, didn’t love him well enough. Piercing screams moved through the walls of our home that soon seemed too small. My mother told me that whenever I felt scared, I could close my eyes and picture myself in New York City, at the top of the Empire State Building, just watching the people walking by. All with purpose, with direction. All free. The day my mother died, March 22, 1970, I packed a bag with two sweaters, one pair of jeans, and 157 dollars, 23 cents, that I somehow planned to live a new life
Belonging to everyone and no one all at once. The last thing she ever said to me was to find what she never did: freedom. Born and raised in small town Montana, my mother lived the life that was assigned to her at birth. She went to school, helped her mother at home, and at the age of 18 was married off to a local man who she was expected to immediately love. She used to tell me that love was a choice. When she decided to love my father, she did it with all her heart. Still, I could tell her mind wandered to other lives she could have lived. My father was a man who was content with a simple life. He held a job as a manager at the local bank and brought home just enough money every day to keep food on the table and his wife in her place. When he was laid off, he blamed my mother. She was too weak, didn’t take care of the home well enough, didn’t love him well enough. Piercing screams moved through the walls of our home that soon seemed too small. My mother told me that whenever I felt scared, I could close my eyes and picture myself in New York City, at the top of the Empire State Building, just watching the people walking by. All with purpose, with direction. All free. The day my mother died, March 22, 1970, I packed a bag with two sweaters, one pair of jeans, and 157 dollars, 23 cents, that I somehow planned to live a new life