We flee Boston
car packed for all contingencies.
Granola bars. Juice boxes. Beanie babies. Blankets.
Philip glued to his gameboy
before we hit 128.
Like a lodestone, the promise of Lyle's house pulls us North.
Off the highway, two lane roads entice us with their curves.
Trees in deep summer green arch over our heads,
whisper slow down.
We stop.
A farm stand trades us for silver queen corn and fat tomatoes,
peach pie, wild berries. I turn off the radio,
open windows on lush fields,
trail my hand in the air stream.
The gravel road surprises us, we backtrack to the turnoff.
The engine drops into first,
growls a challenge and roars up the hill.
Late morning sun etches the house against blue sky.
Light dances off Long Lake,
dazzles our eyes.
The boys pour out of the car,
doors open to the day.
90 miles and a world away.