On the Road

On the interstate my mind dulls, or maybe there’s less to observe. I-87 climbs to the dissected plateau of the Catskills, and I cross Katerskill creek on a bridge high above the water. I long to stop, to take a hike or find some shady overlook where I could eat my lunch, but I’m on the conveyer belt and before I know it I’m back down in the Hudson Valley. Hungry, I pull into a rest area praying at least for a patch of grass and a tree. I find it and sit to eat, though dog walkers have visited before me.

A horn blares.

In the car next to mine, a mother, settling her young son and daughter back into the car announces, “This is New York, baby.”
“I thought this was America.”
“Well, it is. America is huge; New York is just a part of it.”

America is huge. I think of Kansas, Utah, Wyoming.

She gets in and starts the engine, then opens the door and walks over to me. “My son says you need an ice cold water.” She hands me a Poland Spring. Who am I to argue? “Tell him I said thank you,” I say. I open it and sip, ice bobbing at my lips. I give the kid a thumbs up and smile. He settles back into his car seat and they pull away.