When I was in the fifth grade, my hippie parents tucked me and my brother into a sedan and we went on a mad and wonderful road trip across America. I stood on a spot where four state boundaries meet and you can stand in all four at the same time. I bought a dreamcatcher from a Navajo lady and leaned into the gaping Grand Canyon. We cracked open lobsters in Maine, wondered how the Empire State Building could have seemed so tall back then, squinted in the sunlight across Texan plains, stained our hands red while cherry-picking in California, and ate steak and marveled at fearless/foolish gamblers in Vegas. When we were driving in Utah, a fog descended for miles around and we could barely see past the windshield, so we had to drive extra slowly to avoid missing our turn. I wondered if it was like wading through heaven.
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