The space between us is blue and green.

A WBC Series on travel: What is it like to move along the map

Malachite and chrysocolla.

Highway 70 amasses twenty hours of corn. Some watched by Jesus, other ears among the Ten Commandments, his beard becomes a stalk of wheat, becomes a boarder, incomplete. I am passed by a blue semi, and another, and sometimes the inverse — white with that blue curving arrow. At the Amazon dome in Seattle (where you are from), they give away free bananas, because they are the shape of the arrow, which [‘\]they call a smile. I am told the homeless have no idea the bananas are free.

Amazon is my god and my devil as I am hurled across the highway from the dusty browns of Colorado’s desert high. The cornfields move me to lush green. The color of ovulation, hope. My green is snake like. My green was never envy. As a child, the whole world greened.

I peel blue gloves over my fingers, followed by a white pair, pop the gas tank, and fill up, trying not to pee myself, holding my breath in each stall stalling extinction. I peel them again, my hands become tiny bananas, chapped in isopropyl sweat.

Depression moves me through Kansas and Missouri. Rolling under a blue light footbridge in St. Louis. Everything on the road is blue. I pass the…