We weren’t supposed to get lost.
Thanks for reading. Next week: The boy who stole my mixtape in 10th grade.
Finally, the road dead-ended at a view that wasn’t on any map.
“It’s a dirt road,” Dad argued. “We have a sedan.” blog amateur
“Alright, captain. You navigate.”
The Summer the Map Ran Out of Ink Posted by: Margot | August 12th | Filed under: Growing Pains, Road Trips, Letting Go
I shook my head. “I guessed.”
“We go forward,” I said.
I can’t describe it right. That’s the amateur part of this blog. I’m not a poet. But imagine if someone took all the colors of a bonfire—gold, rust, deep purple—and poured them into a crack in the earth a mile wide. There was no guardrail. No gift shop. No plaque. Just us, and the silence, and the feeling that we’d found something that wasn’t supposed to exist.
Everyone looked at me. I never had opinions on logistics. I only had opinions on playlists and whether my brother was touching me. We weren’t supposed to get lost
That last part was bratty. I admit it.
Dad turned off the engine. He stared at the canyon for a long, long time. Then he looked at me.
I learned something out there, I think. Not about maps, or gas, or getting lost. I learned that my father, the great and terrible planner, was just as scared of the unknown as I was. The only difference is, he hid it behind laminated paper. Finally, the road dead-ended at a view that