I spent the day

traveling country roads

I basically did a 20 mile radius of everywhere I called “home” before age 18

The roads familiar and the landscape altered

There are wind turbines where only flat ground stood

But mainly, they’re the same. Same turns. Same homesteads.

It’s spring and the fields are tilled, so much dark brown

Green grass with yellow dandelions already sprinkling the ditches

I rolled the windows down

I used to loath those roads, riding with my dad. He drove so slow. At the speed limit or below. I always wanted to get wherever we were going.


I know, now, it was all about the time with me. Looking back, the majority of our time spent together was riding around in a pick up going down country roads. Always going somewhere to work, always shuttling me somewhere to be while he worked, always taking me back to my mom’s.

I get it now, dad. I know what he was doing. Getting in the time with me while he could. In between obligations. In between growing up. In between childhood and a driver’s license.

He wanted as much time with me as he could. And driving slow or taking the long way gave him that time.

And now, those memories are all that’s left. And riding by them now, on my own, not in a hurry, driving his pickup, I’m saying I’m sorry I always wanted him to go faster.

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