I make the journey every year multiple times. Every time, I’m stuck in the back of a Ford Expedition, my brother asking questions that I have no answer to, so I’m daydreaming as I look out the window and blocking him out.
And then we arrive, the same old dirt road, past canopying trees and cows. My kingdom. There isn’t a castle or servants. I’m not a princess or a queen. But this place is in my blood–I can feel it.
It’s an escape. It may not seem like it but when you get on one of the 4-wheelers and drive off, the wind in your hair, the sun kissing your cheeks, and land as far as you can see that’s yours to roam, you feel free.
When you can run through fields of grass, do leaps, and climb trees you feel like you don’t have a care in the world–and there I don’t.
It’s like I forget everything. Or everything forgets me and I’m able to just enjoy myself without the constant burden of my teenager soap-opera problems.
Right now, I’d rather be there. Roaming free and in the wild. (That sounds like something out of a nature program.) Talking to trees, feeding cows, running forever barefoot, and wandering through the woods.
But I’m stuck. One, because of life. Two, because I can’t drive myself there.