The car is moving forward, but we are going backwards, in search of a specific time and place. We drive past onesies and diapers and ultrasounds. We drive past first apartments and honeymoons and wedding rings. We even drive past long-distance calls and scrabble on the floor and late-night relationship talks in the car. We stop somewhere between running through the rain and staring at the stars and we get out. We are 18 and 19 now, seeing each other with new eyes. The old eyes. The ones that are now too often blinded by all the little everyday things that fight for our attention. But here, we don't see the little things. We see only each other.
We spend the whole weekend like this, because we need it, this being alone, this going back. We need it like fuel in the car, in order to move forward, in order to cover the miles ahead.
We find a little spot for lunch and we are back to a couple of teenagers playing adult in the sticky booths of the Dairy Queen, talking until closing over any topic we can get our hands on, unaware of the time as it drifts by.
We go to see a play and we are back to college kids playing dress up, out for dinner and dancing in the nicest of our thrift store clothes and the only shoes we own, three weeks from the throw away pile.
We drive aimlessly through the mountain woods and find a small lake that is still and mystical and nearly abandoned. We run out to the dock and let the tranquility of nature wrap her gentle arms around us for as long as she wants, and we are back to us.
The trees across the water are lit up with the glory of fall and suddenly I see the brilliant flash of my own life in them, past present future. For a moment, all the colors I have ever lived, will ever live, glisten and spark before my eyes. And every one of them is
Sunday morning, we are in the car again, passing back by cold December proposals and celebrated pregnancy tests as we drive home to the present day. We savor our last bits of youth and freedom at corn mazes and apples orchards along the way, before arriving back at the house, at this humble little place we've made a home together. We are 26 and 27 again, full-fledged adults with grown-up worries and there is a baby, our baby, napping soundly in his crib. Slowly, we make our way back into this everyday world of jobs and bills and grocery trips and all the little mundane tasks that make up our life together on this earth. And it is beauty.