I have two weeks left of 27. It’s January. It’s a Saturday. It’s cold. There’s a car rented in my name. We had discussed doing something different—getting out of town for the weekend. And now the puffy-cheeked, weather people have barked words at us like “blizzard” and “8 or more inches.” But determination often beats out dark clouds.
We’re headed east. The snow-globe we’re now driving within forces me to think about the 100 miles we have left ahead of us and how they seem much more daunting than the 30 we left behind. But much like the time I have spent with him, I don’t care about the mile markers, it’s the in-between which has come to matter. And so we drive on, talking about stuff about things-about people and past and work and cars and how one day we’ll own a house and it won’t be in New York City (or any neighboring borough for that matter) and how gardens are nice and so are dogs-that these things should belong to people.
(I haven’t ever done this before. The traffic is slow enough, I guess. But we could get arrested).
“What if the taller cars, sport utility vehicles and trucks see?”
“Who cares, they’ll just be jealous.”
(I think I love this boy). And somtimes words should be coupled with touch.
I think that I’m sure there’s no slow globe protecting this scenario. And if one should exist, it’s probably sitting on a shelf nailed between two perpendicular walls which make up the secretive skeleton of a long, arid ranch in Nevada. And we’re no where near Nevada. And it’s not dry. We’re headed Northeast, towards Connecticut, towards Mystic, towards the water. The snow is falling and Monday seems dead to me. How was I to know (then) at that moment, I was experiencing the most romantic two days of my life? That the five hours it took to reach Mystic would hold such a story? I hadn’t ever seen snow, sand, and sea water converge all at once, it’s just not something you picture when dreaming about the ocean. Not until it happens…
Here is snapshot of that trip. (4.6 mgs) Ted Leo.
Mihow 
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