We often ride nowhere. The car traverses the city blocks to the highway of vehicles moving through the town in all directions. You maneuver us to the highway until the city is behind us, along with our jobs and tiny apartment. We head north, passing shopping centers and super-sized outlet malls under the rolling hills of the suburbs. The exits become farther apart and narrow into country roadways. We pass through farm fields and small, one-stoplight towns. Do you remember?

The country roads extend into the horizon, and we meander toward it, pausing at gas stations and weaving through hidden small-town neighborhoods. Our future is still hazy but also exciting and new. I put a hand on the back of your neck while you drive, asking questions about your favorite things. I smile at answers immediately forgotten, with the open window roaring beside me. We are weekend wanderers, getting lost and then finding our way home again. 

We save and buy a plot of land in an unincorporated town. Trees are felled, and we set up camp where we plan for a future cabin. The next spring, we bring an adventurous brown-haired toddler who is unafraid of the dark. We pull him into the tent, laughing at his waddling bravery. After a night of listening to the animals, the sun brightens through the tent. Our make-believe house seems genuine.

Every Sunday afternoon, we’re on our way to the city again. The weekend’s precious moments slip away as our responsibilities for the week ahead tug at us. The obligations feel so heavy. We retrace our path to the roads, then the highway, through the dark. Sporadic headlights increase. Then, the beacons of skyscrapers loom afar. 

The dream remains at a distance–hundreds of miles upstate. The two of us say goodbye with plans to meet again even farther away. New plans, distant roads, unknown borrowed homes. The darkness is thick, and the future is full of fear. Running away didn’t make the debts that grew like mold disappear.

Our son and I meet you in a desert oasis—a refuge tucked away from everyone we know. I play housewife and dream on paper of the goals my younger self made. The boy and I swim in the backyard of the rented vacation home. You surprise us with a cannonball. How long can we continue pretending this is home?

Memories bind us in hope and understanding, as we muddle out of past mistakes. The two of us, with the baby in tow, go back to the city. We right wrongs and save, heading back up north and again, planning a space for us all.

A dream is sold for another one, and this one sticks. Trees replace skyscrapers again. Coyotes call to each other instead of the sirens, buses, and garbage trucks. Driving along country roads to school and work is the norm. We can’t keep running. Home is here, unfinished but whole.