February 10, 2012 § Leave a comment

Day 41.

Nearly every day I drive up and down the icy road, peering out the window, anticipating the moment when I will see a moose. I look deep into the woods, certain there is one in there somewhere. On clear days I drive slowly through spots I would expect one to be. I imagine a bull standing at the top of the bluffs, dark and stately against the fluffy, white snow. My father reminds me that I will see one when I am not looking for it, but I am running out of time.

It is difficult to plan life in the big city when I am out here looking for moose. My parents’ and I go to Friday night fish fries; everywhere we go someone knows my dad. My mom and I have gone to antique stores and thrift stores and art stores. On one hand I count the days until I arrive in Chicago; on the other hand I hold on tight to this small Upper Peninsula town. The lifestyles are stark extremes, and I feel torn as both tug at my heart.

The sound of the “L” resides in the back of my mind. I can feel the rumbling of the train cars as I sit still in my seat. The city current is swirling at my feet, and I anxiously wait to jump on in. All the while I am peacefully looking out the window at the forest, hoping that a moose will come out to bid me farewell. But if he doesn’t, that’s okay because I am sure I will be back.



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You are currently reading Forty-One at Lost In the Separation.


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