A New Orleans Mirror
I think I’ll miss the wide-open spaces the most.
Widdeeeee opennnnnn spa-ces (sung to the tune Wide Open Spaces by The Chicks).
As I pick apart my tired eyes and worn reflection in the Louis Armstrong Airport bathroom, I allow my mind to wander.
Earth’s wide-open space, particularly the undesirable mid-American planes come alive. Driving across those obnoxiously flat, golden, monotonous planes of the I-70 path from Boulder, Colorado to Oklahoma City. Traversing eastern Colorado and Western Kansas. I won’t miss the drive, but I’ll miss the freedom feeling it instills within me.
*
I could go anywhere.
I won’t because I’m going home or to school. BUT I could if I so desired.
No one knows I’m out here. No one knows exactly what I’m seeing or what I’m listening to at a specific moment. No one knows how much I despise cow lots, where we raise cows only to be eaten. They’re packed into cages like sardines, growing fatter in filth, wafting in the scent of their impending demise… There’s something surreal about cars that provoke thought, sitting in solitude in a little room moving fast atop speeding wheels.
Driving across untouched fields feels like traveling hand-in-hand with America. She’s smiling and giggling the whole way.
When I mosey under the awning of a small-town gas station—filled with truckers, the occasional chatter between locals, and families of ragged road-trippers—America becomes more real. Almost humanizing herself to me.
My imagination fantasizes of the energy Route 66 must have emitted during its prime. The thrill of travel and true passion felt towards the American Dream. I envision 70s rock band busses packed with groupies. The wild west showcased in car windows, like an exhibit whizzing by, with maybe a cowboy or two galloping on chestnut horses towards the mystical horizon. Kids perch on the backseat and ask, “Are we there yet?” as their mom flips the roadmap, furrowing her brow. Classic rock passes through the speakers, muffled from the occasional static, which somehow evokes the same sensation surmised in one of the children’s feet.
*
In the mirror next to me, a woman wearing pink cheetah print whips out her Samsung Galaxy and fumbles on the screen. She begins to contort her body and purse her lips, facing the phone camera towards her reflection in the mirror. I wonder who she’s sending it to, what she’s perceiving, and if that perception aligns with mine. You go girl! Get that selfie.
I tussle my hair one last time and waltz away. Who knows when or if I’ll return.
Time: Not sure, forgot to set it.
