We’ve been driving for a while, but I keep thinking about what you said, that you can walk anywhere you ever needed to go. We don’t anymore, but you liked to remind me of this, that it all starts with movement. Lately, it feels like we’ve been moving in all different directions. Sometimes we leave behind the perfectly good for the perfectly unknown. 

Do we appear different in each town we pass through? These towns that remind us of why people moved in the first place. The wind pushes us forward, but it also takes us back, all the way to childhood, to the first time we woke up in a town we’d never seen before.

Maybe we’re all just looking for something that makes us feel like a song. I pictured the good times being red like the movie curtains, tall like the painted ceilings. The truth feels closer here, the sky bigger, the wind stronger. Turns out the good times are just a person, standing in front of you, the diner you’ll never see again, the fact that they still use the jukebox.

Maybe there really are only two kinds of stories, the one where you leave, and the one where you come home.