Mother drives and I watch the road. I watch the man who bikes on the sidewalk, the sun that fades away, the little town houses, the purple-pink sky. I belong to these pieces of life, these particles and atoms and molecules that make up my days. I wonder if anyone is living the American dream right at this moment, right now where the sun beams and makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. I belong here where I’ve learned to make sense out of things that were once unbeknownst to me. What was once a picture, a beautiful mystery, an unknown haven, is now America. It is the fifty stars. It is blue, white and red, the colors of my utopia. It all makes sense now. Everything makes perfect sense. In this imperfect utopia, everything is comprehensible, somehow, in some odd way, it’s possible to derive meaning out of the ordinary.
I look at mother. She is smiling. I look at the wide road ahead of me and then back at her. She too has made sense out of it. She too is living her dream, a dream long abandoned.
We are dreamers, me and mother. We will always dream…