Wasting Time
I drove in silence, aware of them jostling above me, happy to be close but separate. Some afternoons Zane would sit by my side, and we’d listen and relisten to a tape of Wind in the Willows, enjoying the tale of Rat and Mole as if we hadn’t heard it a dozen times before, looking over and smiling at each other at the same silly bits of dialogue we always did. Other afternoons it would be Jackson, my older son, who would join me. Sometimes we talked. Once we whiled away an afternoon composing an epic poem about road-kill. But often we simply sat together, our minds blanked by the tedium of the road. We listened to the thrumm of tires on pavement. We breathed the warm, close air. Time slowed.
There was real pleasure in this boredom, these hours and days and weeks of traveling together, of being together, of just being. The things we did, the places we saw, the thoughts we had about ourselves and each other were part of that time, and that time alone.
I think some adventures should be lived just for the sake of the adventure. Some feelings should be private; some lessons learned for one’s benefit alone. Life, even for a writer, can just be life, not a narrative to be crafted and sold.
We leave for a camping trip to the mountains next week. The reporter’s notebook stays at home.