My car is aimed at a horizon of grass and asphalt, consuming highway in one of those stretches of earth that seems to go on forever. I’m in a world of transition: away from home and not quite there yet.
The drive passes in mile markers, hedgerows, overpasses, and roadside signs for fresh strawberries. Everything is bright green and sky blue and endless-endless-endless. Time is relative in stretches like this, and I imagine my car motionless, its wheels turning as the world rotates underneath. I am a ball bearing perfectly balanced atop a spinning globe.
Then a sudden yellow burst in the sea of green. A field of mustard flowers—a sun-bright flash of light like a sunset reflecting on a calm sea.
If I lived in that house, I’d be home. I’d follow the golden light to my front porch, and I’d collapse and stare out into the sea of yellow. I’d sleep in amber light. I’d stick to the earth as it spun me into my future.
But just as suddenly the flash is gone, and I’m speeding toward the neverending horizon.
-gj