Driving down the NJ Turnpike felt so effortless that I thought I had died. The sun was setting in front of me, blinding me with what seemed to be the bright light of my death. I convinced myself that I was alive when I had to stop for gas in Maryland. As I placed my nozzle into the tank (because we can pump our own in the south, thank you), I had mixed feelings about driving the last few miles home.
On one hand, I was elated: the sun was about to set on the winding country roads where I’d see horses eating buttercups and all those acres of open space in a bath of golden light. I delighted in the idea of taking a deep breath from the fecund air and not having to smell fried food or trash or cigarette smoke. But on the other hand, I’ve lived in New Brunswick for almost three years now. It has become a home to me. In New Brunswick I can stumble down the street and find something to do or someone to talk to at any hour. In Maryland I have to drive at least ten minutes to find a friend’s parents’ house, and who knows if they’ll even have time to see me. It can get lonely when the only person who wants to play with you is not a person at all but a golden doodle.
Maryland is beautiful like a dream. It’s unsettling like a dream, too, especially after uninterrupted months of smoke and sidewalks and backyards barely big enough for a single cartwheel. Before I sat back in my car at the Shell station, I looked at the people’s faces and the hay field across the street and tried to pretend that at least one of the two felt familiar.
Samantha Mitchell