I’ve been thinking a lot lately about all the places we’ve gotten in the car and driven to: El Paso, the Grand Canyon, Richmond, New York, D.C., Orange Beach, Virginia Beach. I have a great appreciation for road trips, particularly ours. It was at this time last year that we began our weekly trips from Richmond to Nashville, getting the house ready to settle into. The thing about road trips is they force you into such close proximity that animosity cannot sustain itself. We argue, we bicker, we sulk. Then we get over it. Because not getting over it means hours of no noise but road noise, which is stupifying in its consistency. The only available alternative is to move forward both metaphorically and physically.
Captivating road trip conversation is yet another reason to go in the first place. When we run out of things to talk about, the trip will inevitably provide a topic of conversation. For example, halfway through Texas I had no clue what else to say. I felt like I’d told you everything about myself that you’d care about, and my mind frantically mined itself for something clever to say. That’s when we passed the windmills, remember? They are fodder for conversation in and of themselves, especially at night, their insufferable consistency and solemnity offering a bleak support for the harsh solitude that is central Texas. I miss those conversations.
I want us to take road trips again. I want us to go places, just us two. And maybe the dogs. I want to find new places and see new things, even horrible ones, with you. I want to create with you the stories we’ll tell for the rest of our lives. In order to do that, though, you have to keep with me. You cannot abandon me to myself and expect me to create the most positive definition of my life, of our life. You can’t leave me to my own devices because they are faulty and cheaply made, the only tools that can come from a factory of anxiety and depression. I cannot tell a good story by myself. So what I’m asking you, the case I’m pleading, is that you never disappear from me.
Never take yourself away from me because I can’t understand distance. In the same way I have no concept of distance measurement, so, too, emotional distance holds no inherent definition for me. I cannot be distanced from you without anxious fatigue. I need you with me, or I am not myself, and my story becomes tangled in all the things I never was and all the things I’ll never be. You are me as much as I am.
Please don’t disappear from me.