them in over four months. When can we see you? Mom asked every week. Every time, the question stretched our time apart longer and the distance between us farther. Even over the phone, I could hear her voice echo in the house. I imagined their quiet street, now primarily empty nesters, and felt a pang of guilt. I resorted to the car, but this time with a destination. We can’t meet at home, but maybe we can meet somewhere outside halfway? That evening we pulled up in the parking lot of a taped-off neighborhood playground. The lingering rain left everything slick and muddy. My parents pulled up in the spot next to us, and Mom rolled down the passenger window. She reached across to hand us double packaged veggie wraps from home and a bag of my favorite fried sweet banana buns. Buns were only reserved for special occasions. And right there, we dined as a family for the first time in parallel. This is nice. Despite the rain wetting our laps and having to put up our hoods for dinner, I genuinely meant it. It is. I can’t believe this is our life now, but I’m really happy we did this. I memorized this image of my family framed by the windows of my getaway car. Heavy, dark rain clouds chased us all the way home, but I felt like the rays of sun that fought their way through. This car, the road, the wheels in constant yet aimless motion no longer felt like just an escape – as cathartic as it was. It was now my enabler. No longer was I witnessing life outside the car. I was living and breathing again.
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
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