I remember the daily, aimless drives through the urban sprawl of my hometown.  I remember we were desperate for any source of excitement, but we never found it.  I remember a communal ennui that only progressed with every day we were stuck in this barren, flat, poorly developed city, inhabited predominantly by middle-aged, rich, white folk, content with their nuclear families and routine lives.  I remember that we wanted absolutely nothing to do with that, but that it was practically inescapable.  I remember the underwhelming sites.  I remember a consistently poor morale among the passengers, and the affect that the strip malls and parking lots had on us as we approached the so-called skyline.  I remember making jokes about the empty stores and abandoned concrete landscapes--trying to find anything amusing.  I remember driving just to be away from my family, maybe even to be alone with a girl.  I remember when we finally stopped the car, I would get flustered and do another few laps around our neighborhoods, past the plethora of churches and windowless schools.  I remember I was making $5.15 (minimum wage at that time) per hour at my grocery store job and that was the year I started paying for everything in my life.  I remember my mom at least acting like she didn’t mind my arrival before dinner and my departure right after.  I remember not entirely believing she was okay with my absence.  

     I don’t remember how we had the money to pay for the gallons and gallons of gas.  I don’t remember if gas was even expensive back then--maybe nine to eleven years ago.  I don’t remember why I felt the need to be away from my family--the people who have come to mean the most.  I don’t remember what kept us from leaving town or if my mom ever noticed or acknowledged the apparent loss of zest in my life.  I don’t remember if there was even one beautiful thing amidst the sea of chains and brown and orange signs.  I don’t remember doing anything truly fun on any of these “driving days.”  I don’t remember why we didn’t just stay home or why we didn’t keep chugging along even further.  I don’t remember the last time I talked to anyone from back home.  I don’t remember if my mom was fulfilled either.