The Same Highway

The same highway every year

identical parcels packed every year

black, blue, green, orange sleeping bags

and the same jerking in the diesel truck

from the boat being pulled behind.

 

What is it about this trip?

When does the same journey become

ritual

or tradition?

Do we decide these for our family’s?

At what point do the roads become

so familiar that I could drive them

with my eyes closed…

 

Lemons and limes roll around the floor

boards of the truck-

the bags torn open and this is only the beginning…

 

The memory of what is created with my children

Is something I have grown to love over the years

Lots of preparation and something is always

forgotten–

Gratefully, its never been a child

Seven trips to the store, five coolers

four bags of food and 12 towels

 

Every year this trip comes and goes

excited and happy, 95 degrees

and my heaven on earth

feeling weightless in the water…

 

the sun breaks through the windows

casting light across my bare legs

in a matter of days, the same sun will

be shining across my face

on the drive home…

 

 

 

 

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