My eyes glide across the page, and I look up to meet my roommate’s stare.
It doesn’t take long to figure out what we’re both craving after meticulously reading and highlighting our respective textbooks. Even with the pulsating beats of Nicki Minaj, the three fluorescent bulbs illuminating our room, and several to-do lists posted everywhere, we are still left needing more motivation to keep our orange markers moving.
I blink.
Outside the dormitory window, Ohio beckons me to come lay on its turf. Cornfields and nature trails and Amish carriages pulled by trotting ponies complete the scene at Kenyon College. Middle Path, about a kilometer in length, delicately slices the campus in half and hosts a number of independent small business owners. My mind floats back to my summer as a research assistant for the Sociology Department.
One day after a short shift, I purchased a tiny jar of raspberry rhubarb jam from an elderly woman named Mildred and, after slathering my treat on a slice of rye, hopped on my [t]rusty bike. Sucking in the fresh air, I peddled hard. Past bushes of wildflowers and tall oaks, the main road opened before me and my sandwich. Since it was still fairly early in the day, not a single car whooshed past and not a single carriage crossed the path. However, a breeze did catch my sundress, and I was glad that no was around to witness my Marilyn Monroe moment.
Goodness, I thought, we aren’t ever alone like this to pack a lunch and let ourselves go for the day.
Who rides this road with jelly in his or her backpack?
This road, like every other one I’d ever been on, was created so that the driver could reach a specific destination.
Maybe a rainy drive to the airport, panicking about traffic, and the possibility of a delayed flight. Perhaps, an argument on the way to the Honey Festival about local politics and their impact on the upcoming presidential election. Or it’s possible that the craving for a burrito is what sent you speeding down this road. It occurred to me, then, that I was on my way somewhere and I stopped peddling to consider this.
Sitting down with my back against a tree, I looked at the deserted road. It was three in the afternoon now, hot and humid. Somehow the pocket that I’d stuffed my lunch into became unzipped. My sandwich bag was probably hanging from one of the branches I thought I’d dodged earlier. For the birds, I sighed, and turned my head towards the blue jay that landed in my bike basket. After a moment, he raised his wings. I watched his body propel itself into the sky, and squinted at the sun’s rays.
I blink again.
My roommate and I smile at one another. “It really hurts my feelings that bugs can just move into our room and think they can live here,” she tells me. I go with it. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.
Maybe if they see us leave, they’ll follow suit,” I answer. Setting aside our books and highlighters, we shut the door and head down to the main road. She and I take turns rapping lyrics from Nicki’s best songs and ride past one cornfield after another with no regard for the multiplying ladybugs on our ceiling and no destination in mind.
To lose possessions and to gain experiences, to watch birds when friends are not near and to sing with them when you are together, to veer off the path and then get back on when you’re ready.
This is the freedom to enjoy the road you’re on…
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