Growing up,
we'd always
said we'd
travel together,
someday.
Picking you up from
gymnastics
or
soccer or
basketball and
driving to another
destination,
I
imagined us
on our way
to some exotic countryside of
canyons and
tumbleweed,
the kind in Western paintings
like that man on the
horse,
the one you drew.
Used socks and
banana peels
sprawled over
the back seats,
windows down and feet
on the dash,
we lived out of our
suitcases
in the trunk--
in our heads.
We'd wake up at
dawn
for
another
canyon sunrise,
then drive another couple
hundred
miles
and stop at
greasy burger joints
for fuel.
But
going
to
the mall
washed me back on shore
to
reality.
We were going to another
predetermined,
prederived
clothing
chain,
reminding me of our
traditional
teenage roles
in society
(for modern
times):
shopping,
gossiping,
eyeing the "hotties."
I hate
society's
predestination
of my youth,
and going to the
canyons
always made us free.