Finish this sentence: “I never thought I’d. . .”
It was a cool September evening, the last goodbyes were said and open road stretched out before me. My black Jeep Liberty was packed with boxes of my precious mementos. I pulled away from the curb; the finality of the decision and my homelessness state rested in my soul. The decision to leave was the easiest part for my gypsy heart. An ocean of red brake lights glared into my eyes fittingly as the sun set in the West.
The mile markers slowly crept past until darkness enveloped the highway ahead. My thoughts drifted to the astonishment which had painted the faces of my college friends and co-workers when I broke the secret about the move. They did not see a caged bird that longingly desired to live beyond the confines of the Orange curtain. I expected that reaction as I had finally found a niche in the business world. People were dumbfounded that I’d leave a good job with health benefits, and Southern California to relocate to the Lone Star state. The stars hung like Chinese lanterns bore a silent witness to my trek.
I crossed the bridge over the Colorado River and California was just a glimpse in my rearview mirror. The cactuses lined the interstate with their tangled arms reaching to grasp the unseen. The Sonoran desert was air brushed in oranges, reds, and pinks stood in a silent beauty. I knew this route like my backhand; its familiar sites and lampposts guided family vacations as a child. I pondered how these prepared me for Africa; and how the impossibility of the African adventure had conquered fears to make this dream a reality. The lessons learned from making a home in another country brought a courage and independence that when the decision came to relocate; there was not any doubt of the step that I would take.
Now, with each breath and body ache from two days of travel; I was retracing my grandparents’ route and into a person that I had not met yet. The endless expanse of the New Mexico plain lay dotted with telephone poles that marked the Continental Divide. The Continental Divide was a living black-white photograph of my grandma sitting on a Ford with the map in the window and her writing on the back. The geographic divide of whether the water flows east or west—now; I would no longer be so far “out West” but residing on the “East” side. As the speedometer chased the yellow line into the sun set; a city sat straddled between mountains and two countries. Poverty met wealth divided by a river, a language, and a government. Time was moved forward as the world’s collision gave way to oil wells springing forth like the Texas wildflowers upon the open fields. An excitement, nervousness built inside as passed rest stops, truckers, and abandoned wood homes that lay in between the nothingness and the civilization’s city lights.
Indian smells and musk filled the senses as the third day started before sunrise. My brain was on an endless loop calling for the trip to end alongside my body aches that shouted to no longer sit or drive a vehicle. As the sun rose in East, I travelled on a two lane highway towards coffee with an unwritten future in a strange new land. This land courted tourism by proudly proclaiming to visit was “go to a completely different country” –greeted my weariness with rain. Rain was a foreign phenomenon after not experiencing for over a year. Friday night rush hour traffic glared and combat ensued as the Dallas skyline rose on the eastern horizon. It was like a lighthouse’s beacon shining with undiscovered treasures. I stood in front of the door with the metal numbers, 1335 and my homelessness state ended with a turn of the key. I stepped across the threshold into the answered prayer of a long ago dream.
By Shannon McKemie 09-2010
