I was driving to Columbus
on 70 east of Indy, when my GPS told me
I should get off
to avoid construction traffic.
I, eager to reach my destination,
obeyed. Off the Interstate I went, and
I found myself
on the backroads of rural eastern Indiana.
The road was barely wide enough
for two cars to pass each other,
but all signs said
to go fifty-five. Fifty-five miles an hour
over potholes and rolling hills and
past houses which seldom saw a car go by,
let alone one with
Missouri plates and a driver who,
upon careful observation,
had no idea
where he was or
where he would be going.
I bobbed and weaved
past ancient farmhouses and little towns
too small for so much as
a traffic light. As I drove, I realized
I was the only soul I knew who had ever
come this way and seen this pretty countryside.
A smile snuck its way onto my face, and
the bumpy old backroad snuck its way into my heart.
For the first time in a long time,
I had been the pioneer.
I had been the one to do something first,
without my parents
or friends
or anybody else
to accompany me
or go before me.
I had finally done something
well and truly on my own.
