And so.

Why you drive on narrow back roads that take you hours longer to get home. Why you stop and take photos of crumbling things, rusted hooks and broken latches, and fields dried out from the parched summer passing through New England. Why you spend 10 minutes looking out the window before you open the door. Why you write down the phone number of the man selling the vintage car you can’t afford. Why you hover in close to memorize that exact shade of orange. Why you don’t mind waiting for the bus that arrives 30 minutes late to take you to the big city. Why the stranger sitting next to you comforts you with silence. Why the air conditioning no longer chills you. Why the sudden swell of July humidity no longer levels you. Why you stay webbed in conversation with a woman who wants to tell you the long story of her father. Why you look her in the eye. Why you put a hand on her arm. Why you sit in the sun afterward and count your million blessings. Why you pause at a kitchen counter across the water in New Jersey and smell cinnamon in the air, and close your eyes and hear an airplane passing through on the way to someone’s next big adventure and believe yourself there, too. Why a single key reminds you you aren’t lost. Why a touch in the middle of the night feels like a promise. Why your love keeps ballooning, filling with air, as if it could live on it forever.