283: Mile 700

When the movers load the last box onto the truck 

and you are left at the edge of it all, 

stand in your empty apartment and sing. 

Let the echo bounce of the walls.

Leave flowers on the counter for your super.

Walk to the coffee shop one last time. 

Buy the croissant you’ve eyed for months.

Tip the baristas foolishly. 

Hug your neighbors on the sidewalk. 

Promise your dog the drive will be over soon. 

Remind yourself- tears are proof of love. 

Then with salt-stained cheeks and lips, 

settle into the car and head west. 

On the way, stop to measure the corn 

against your shoulders. 

Call your dad. Ask him for advice. 

Send texts to your friends at the gas stations. 

Save their voice notes in return. 

When the song hits just right, 

wiggle in your seat. 

When the stars come out, 

open the sunroof. 

When grief creeps up on you, 

talk to God. 

And somewhere between all that 

ending and beginning, 

praying and driving, 

singing and crying, 

a version of you,

with realized dreams and tender memories, 

will fade away 

and let you go. 

When she does 

(somewhere around mile 500)

give yourself permission

to dream new dreams. 

Give yourself permission 

to begin again. 

Written by Sarah A. Speed // Writing the Good