Heavy, unrelenting fog had shut down the airport and it would be some time before I was rescued from sterile cream tile and the unremarkable columns spaced throughout the terminal. A friend drove me two hours to another airport so that I might catch the last flight home, where a job I disliked wholeheartedly awaited my immediate return. I found myself twelve hours into the new year and already brooding on the omen at hand: a cancelled flight, a long, mad rush to discontentment… was this any indication of what I could expect in the year to come?
She was not familiar with the area despite having lived there for a few years; we had to stop at a gas station to buy a map, pick out the route, and get the car pointed in the right direction. I knew she would not use the map again — she had little patience for deciphering its legend or even folding up the thing properly — and so it was that five hundred miles and one tiny bag of peanuts later it had made its new home in the pocket of my car’s passenger-side door. Yet even I didn’t use it, as it was always just out of reach no matter how I twisted and stretched my arm across the seat.
Now it’s on the move again and going places I’ve only dreamed about: half of the state is wrapped around a gift for a friend who is following her heart all the way to an east coast metropolis, while the rest of it is tucked away in my messenger bag, awaiting adventures of its own.
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