The Road that Remembers

I live for these moments. 

Moments that make you forget anything but remember everything all at once. 

The dirt road crunches beneath the car tires. With windows down I am serenaded by the gentle sounds of crickets chirping and peepers making their infamous Vermont peeps. A soft breeze swoops in through the sunroof and out through the passenger seat window, tugging my mess of golden brown hair with it. I follow the path of air with my hand, stuck out beside me, moving up and down as if conducting its current. The warm sun barely sits upon the canopy made of beech and maple tree arms, speckled with green leaves which embrace the small road I travel on. 

The smell of damp earth and wildflowers clings to the air, wrapping itself around me like a memory I haven’t lived yet. For a moment, time feels like it pauses—held in place by the hum of late spring and the rhythm of my heartbeat matching the rumble of the car.

These simple drives seem to be stitched into the fabric of who I am. They don’t ask for anything—no words, no plans, no destination. Just presence. Just peace. Just me and the road and the soft reminder that sometimes the best parts of life are quiet, slow, and fleeting.

I live for these moments.
The kind of moments that sneak up on you, golden and weightless, tucked between the ordinary. Moments where time doesn’t stop, but instead softens. Where for a breath, a blink, a heartbeat; nothing hurts, nothing rushes, nothing is missing.

And somehow, in those quiet seconds,
everything you've ever loved, lost, hoped for, or needed feels present

not in words, but in feeling.