Riding in our truck on the freeway, I am wishing I was riding in our truck on the freeway. It occurs to me that often the wish for the next time crowds out the time I’m in.
Anticipation and yearning are reflexes honed by years of asking myself, “What’s next?” This is fine, I think, but what’s next? What am I looking forward to? What’s the next marker? The next good thing? When is the next time I will be riding in our truck on the freeway?
Being in the truck at night, the radio on, McDonald’s coffee in a tall cup in the holder, my laptop glowing, farms floating by, sometimes the smell of cows and hogs latching on for a few miles, in the distance lights are on in kitchens and dining rooms. We pass a farmer harvesting a row of dried corn and I wonder if the farmer’s partner is timing dinner for the end of the third row or whether there is a TV dinner waiting in the freezer. We imagine everyone’s lives to be warmer than they probably are. I always think everyone else has macaroni and cheese in the oven.
I wish I was in a truck, that I had the freedom to be on the freeway, riding along, cocooned, looking at things going by. Watching the sun going down, the last strands of blue to the west, remembering times sitting at my desk itching to be moving, to be on the road.
I am on the road. It’s where I am. Right here, right now. This is the next time I wanted.