Driving

There's a highway that heads out of town.  I've been down it so many times, going away, off to do or see or be somewhere else.  Its the road I drove when I was a senior in high school, with special permission to visit my sister at college for the first time.  Alone.  Overnight.  I sat behind the wheel in our family's giant van, excited by the freedom and independence I was given, and a little terrified that I would get lost in the cold, dark backwoods that I had to travel once I got off the highway.  I made it, remembering the route I had driven when we dropped her off in the summer, when mom and dad decided to sit in the back and remember every special moment of my sister's life, crying and laughing, and I rolled my eyes up front.  I got to go a few times over the next couple of years, although visiting a college dorm is a little less exciting when you also live in one.  But that first visit...I still remember the excited feeling of being on my own, driving my sister and her roommate to a Mexican restaurant a few towns away for dinner, the flowery smell of a girl's dorm (who doesn't have college flashbacks when she smells that cheap air freshener they sell at the dollar store?).  It was on that road, returning from one of those visits, when I got my first (only?) speeding ticket.  The trembling fear of being pulled over, not knowing what to do or say, and of course, the sinking loss of freedom once mom and dad found out.  Except the cop gave me a ticket and a fine to pay, and I had a job and a checking account, so I mailed off the payment ($140 people, it set me back!), thinking I was free and clear from having my driving privileges suspended.  But I didn't know that the insurance company would send Mom and Dad a letter a few months later, informing them that their rate was going up because their daughter had been pulled over.  Trust me, its worse trying to explain something after many months have passed than to just fess up right away.  Because not only did I get caught, but I lost trust.

I hit the road again when my boyfriend (now husband) started college.  The first time I visited him was on September 11th.  Classes were cancelled, and I sat in my friend's dorm watching the news for about an hour, until the newscaster said, "This is a time to be with the one's you love", and I didn't think of my parents only an hour away, or my sister at her college further away, I thought of the man I loved, four hours away, and I hopped in my car and went to him.  I should mention this was right around the time that we each had gotten cell phones, but I was young and impetuous, and calling to make sure it was a good time (even calling my parents to let them know what i was doing) seemed crass and unromantic.  So I showed up at his dorm and met a cast of characters that I would grow to resent for being idiots and influencing the most important person in my life.  This was the first of many trips, each fueled by an excitement to get there, every love song playing on the radio communicating to my foot to press a little harder on the accelerator.  Each trip was also marked by a tearful goodbye in a parking lot, surrounded by people heading to the cafeteria, feeling jealous that they were so close to him, able to see him whenever they wanted, full of heartache as I drove home, the love songs causing a new wave of tears.  Eventually, we both lived in the same place, the goodbyes were short-lived, lasting only the night, until they were ended altogether by the exchange of rings and vows, the cutting of a cake and the unloading of all our possessions into the same home.

But still, I went down the road.  Because my best friend went to a college and settled into the city and married the love of her life, a native, and every few months, a trip was made to see each other.  Sometimes I had company in the car with me, my husband cracking jokes and finding the station playing Backstreet Boys so he could be cheesy and sing along, or a baby riding in the back, crying for 60 straight miles, not wanting to stop because that was just more time in transit, but also not wanting to listen to him cry.  As soon as I crossed the threshold, it was a race to speak all the words I'd stored up, share all the stories that had built up in my mind, listen to hers, laugh and be together, because its only ever a visit, the time for long discussions and silent camaraderie are over.  We are both wives and mothers who have houses to clean and relatives to spend time with, children who demand our attention, more attention than we thought we had to give, jobs and chores and errands that don't care if we are seeing each other, won't let us have a week off.  Sleep is seen as optional, and I always drive home with a caffeinated beverage in hand, slapping my cheeks and cranking the A/C, because if I've learned one thing on all these drives, its that heat makes me sleepy, so no matter what the weather, its cold air blasting through the vents.

I went there again this weekend, to see the new baby and support my friend, but I went alone.  I drove in peace and quiet, and remembered all the drives that had come before.  I noticed how the curve of the road caused an emotional reaction, how my heart remembered the signs and filled with longing at the memory of what used to wait for me at the end.  But its different now.  Because my home is actually at my home, where my family sleeps and eats, and the world beyond doesn't beckon me like it used to.  Home used to be a place to escape, a boring place where time stood still and everything I wanted required a drive down the road, out of town.  For the first time, its the drive home that makes me press a little harder on the accelerator, the image of my boys waiting at the door, ready to jump on me all at once the second I walk through the door, my husband smiling and pulling me close despite the small bodies wrapped around my legs, the house that we have made a home protecting us and keeping us together.