I took a Greyhound bus from my hometown to Santa Fe.
To attend a photography workshop.
I remember how terrified I was.
Climbing those metal steps.
Sliding sideways with my bag down the narrow aisle.
And then staring out at my family through the scratched and blurry window.
I couldn't even sleep that night.
So afraid of the strangers who slept uncomfortably within inches of me.
Jerking up every time the driver would veer off the road and onto the gravel.
I awoke the following morning.
And there was the reddening sunrise.
And I realized just how far away from home I was.
In a town I'd never been to alone before.
And suddenly, the window scratches became Van Gogh etchings.
And the other passengers became Dean Moriartys.
The gang member with slit scars up and down his wrists.
With his Dep hair gel.
And the CD he traded me for a stick of gum.
The ebony-skinned mother.
With her three miniature muses.
All heel toes and too-dah-lees down the aisle and back.
And me, between them all.
Caught in a moment between my youth and forthcoming adventure.
And the road was the dividing line.