The American Midwest is a flat, dry landscape offset by the occasional farm or tree line border between properties. Speed limit signs decorate the interstate as the lane lines stretch on for infinity. You can see the stars at night. Voluminous clouds skate through the expansive sky during the day. Now, we travel in enclosed metal caravans like our pioneering ancestors before us. Only now, instead of pilgrimaging to a new life, we’re traveling to visit Aunt June or compete in a regional softball tournament.
I guess at the moment I’m feeling nostalgic for my hometown. I’m proud to come from there and want kids growing up with similar aspirations to mine to see that it is possible.
My wallpaper never gave me any sense of closure for moving. It should've. Cartoon monkeys peeling bananas that looked like yellow Tic-Tacs. I left a Disney's Cars sticker on the bedroom window. That way, whoever took my room next knew that I was there once.
She took my hand, and the world around us halted. Mom and Arthur became catatonic. The grandfather clock in the living room went silent, its swinging arm locked in a diagonal. A fly buzzing beneath the warmth of the entranceway table lamp hung still in mid-air, right beneath the beaded switch string.