On the road, again

In the words of Kerouac, "there was nowhere to go but everywhere"

I’m riding shotgun with my childhood dog curled in my lap, the windows down, leaves tumbling past, while my mom rattles off classic rock hits for me to queue. This is home. Not the house where I spent twenty-one Christmases, not the town that raised me, not even the people who fill it. Those things matter, but home, for me, has always been the road.

I’m …