Drive twelve hours with one of your very favorite people. You will not need music. You will not need podcasts. There will not be silence. When there is, it will mean something.
Make countless coffee stops.
Count six deer welcoming you back into Pennsylvania. You count in case your father asks if you’ve seen any. The road will turn, and the deer will look at you unafraid.
Stop in the town, on the farm, where you grew up. Smell home. Breathe deep. Be glad to share this with a friend.
Drive three more hours alone. Don’t be afraid. You will be too tired to think.
Drink more coffee.
Stare at countless stars over the turnpike to stay awake. They will keep you company. They will make you miss the sky you grew up with. There are no stars in Philadelphia.
Park your car and balance your belongings the block and a half to your apartment.
Drop your things on the floor. Crawl into bed, kiss the man beside you.
Nestle your feet between the warm cats on the edge of the bed. They’ve left a space for you.
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