L.A. shrinks in the rearview,
a crown of glass and steel.
That distant skyline
like a promise you forget
the moment you hit the open road.
The air changes,
you can taste it,
the breath of orchard lands— onions and oranges,
their sweet, sharp scent
a prayer on the tongue.
Fresno, a mirage
of gas stations and strip malls, society’s last gasp
before the mountains
swallow us whole.
The highway, a golden chain, uncoils and uncoils,
a snake shedding its skin
along the jagged cliffs.
My hands on the wheel,
a conversation of hums and vibrations with the asphalt,
with the sun beating down.
It’s not just miles.
It’s the weight of expectation, the bright, summer memories I’m hauling for my boys,
for the woman beside me.
We crossed a bridge.
The Merced River whispered what it knows of time,
of constant flow.
Took a wrong turn,
the kind that reminds you
how fast the forest eats you alive. Its intense greens swirled,
hidden highways,
a wild, beautiful mistake.
And then, night.
Las estrellas,
not just stars, but ancient queens pricked into the dark velvet.
The whole galaxy,
a small universe,
reflected in my sons’ eyes.
And suddenly,
the scale of everything shifts.
My wife, she’s quiet beside me, then the soft wetness of tears. The sun, a painter,
leaving trails of purple, pink, lavender between the clouds and
treetops.
She remembers her dad,
this trip he always spoke of,
a ghost in the passenger seat, a gentle hand on her shoulder. I feel her heart inside mine,
a deep thrumming.
And in that moment,
the last light fading,
the vastness of California around us, I think of all the borders crossed, the languages learned.
This, right here,
is the promise that never left me.