My mother’s VW died and was hauled to the shop for a few days of rejuvenation, so I’ve been packing the hordes off to their morning destinations. This means I’ve been getting to work via the coastal route instead of the speedy-maniac highway route, and it is just the worst.
I’ve driven the road dozens of times, but the trip that always comes to mind is the one that happened around the event of my sad little wedding, a dozen years ago. The winter I was 23, I stood on the beach with my new baby sleeping on my chest, shielding him from the sandy wind and watching the young men I loved play in the freezing surf, feeling faintly amused and completely bereft. I was fat and tired from pregnancy, aimless in my career search, having misgivings about my marriage, and feeling unworthy to join my own festivities. I wanted. I still do.
I try to blot it out with audio books, but then the shrimp farms fly past and the bay comes into view and my stomach suddenly cramps and tries to crawl up my neck. Some feelings rise and fall and dissipate in the safety of the chest, and some are heaving physical reactions that are impervious to the years and distance and change which are supposed to stop them. Gross.
Pretty place for it, though.
The new house is safely situated in a new town, with no memory ghosts to make me feel like barfing. HA. I win.
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