Call Off the Chase

Why there's no such thing as living left behind.

Late Wednesday night, just before dusk, I was zipping up the highway, stunned by the sun setting on redbud trees doing their best to bloom. The road was built for traffic, yet there was only me. I was totally alone in the eerie collision of golden hour and a sky that threatened retaliation. Where was everyone? If I were 35 years younger, I might have worried that I’d been left behind, in the psychologically traumatizing “end times” way.

I’ve put a lot of miles on April. Endless hours on US 31. Too much time with Google maps. All good things. I drove to Chicago with Cory. I drove to my parents’ house in Ohio. I drove to Franklin, Indiana for an event with Emily. I drove up to Grand Rapids. On a bit of a whim, 48 hours after returning as contentedly bedraggled as I’ve ever been, I drove 100 miles to Purdue to visit Cal, who hugged me on the sidewalk wearing a brand new mullet.

We toured botanical gardens tended by the smooth-skinned green-thumbs of Purdue’s horticulture program. We walked gusty loops around a city of young adults and ate chicken and rice with hot sauce. I loaded him up with Pop-Tarts, Pringles, microwavable rice (with soy sauce) and fizzy water. Then I watched him disappear into a 10-story dorm as time pulled like taffy in my Grandma’s 1980’s kitchen.