St. Paul to Chicago.
I press my forehead against the glass to feel the cool air outside. I use a pile of jackets as a pillow. Headphones, sunglasses, hoodie. A green sleeping bag circles my torso like an easygoing boa constrictor.
I might depend on the flimsy walls of this enclosure too much. Most days, I sleep better in here than the hotel rooms at night.
The paint is peeling. The plush interior has lost its lush fur. There are wounds from thrown shoes, from run-ins with merch boxes and open guitar case latches.
As the seat belt buckle digs into my back, I attempt the same paragraph of Clarice Lispector’s short stories for the fifth time and slowly drift off. Away into turbulent dreams of being a riverboat captain, a contorted stowaway in the luggage compartment of an overseas airliner.
Awake again, I know this space better than any other part of my world. It’s kept me safe from darkness, lightning, wind and hail. This van has been my home longer than any other place I’ve called home.
It’s kept me somewhat sane, too. Every time we get back on the highway, I feel like there’s possibility and potential in the imminent evening.