The up and onward and not the over and out

“There are many dramas inherent to relocation via the highway: the tears triggered by a country song, the weird free fall of registering at a motel and not knowing your address, the exhilarating merger of open road and open future. But no one ever talks about those agonizing miles between your departure point and the point at which the interstate fades into a generic ribbon of asphalt. No one ever talks about the suspension of disbelief required to pull out of a driveway that is no longer yours, coast through a neighborhood that will soon no longer be home, and pass—if not for the last time ever, at least for the last time before they become symbols of nostalgia—the landmarks that, while utterly prosaic, have long been the only thing standing between disorientation and sweet familiarity. No one ever talks about the importance of staring straight ahead while making this exit. You cannot turn your head and acknowledge the park, the museum, your favorite restaurant. You cannot wonder if the person driving that red Honda you just passed is your friend from the gym. Like breaking up with a lover, you need to be as gracious as possible, but even more so you just need to walk out. You cannot play Goodnight Moon. You cannot bid farewell to the yellow house on the corner. You cannot duck inside the church and light a candle. You cannot stop and get coffee. You can only look straight ahead and drive. You can only think about the next thing, the hello and not the goodbye, the up and onward and not the over and out.”

—Meghan Daum, from Life Would Be Perfect if I Lived in That House