Each summer, the map spread wide
across the kitchen table—
my father tracing routes with a finger,
his eyes squinting, as though looking for the path
where adventure hid,
waiting along the inked highways.
Chicago—always the start,
the city we’d leave behind,
its skyline fading in the rear view,
and the rumble of the wheels interspersed
with the chatter of my sister’s endless questions
and the rustle of my mother’s stoic optimism.
Rand McNally in hand,
a sacred guide,
each page crinkled with age
and heavy with anticipation,
labeling towns and sites we never heard of
and others we’d never forget.
We’d drive through the heart of America,
through cornfields and small towns
where the diner was always open
and the waitress knew your order before you spoke.
There was something sacred about those maps—
not just roads or cities,
but a way of binding us to each other,
in the back of our old Chrysler
with the windows cracked and the sun hot,
sticky fingers passing snacks,
the scent of gas and sunburns mixing.
Dad always knew the best route—
not the fastest,
but the one that wound by rivers and hills,
through little-known landmarks and endless sky,
places where time slowed down
and the roads stretched out,
offering us the freedom to get lost
but always know where we were.
The hum of the tires on endless roadways,
the blur of passing landscapes,
the roadside tourist shops,
the quirky attractions,
a kaleidoscope of Americana unfolding before our eyes.
Mount Rushmore’s stoic gaze,
Yellowstone’s geysers erupting,
the Grand Canyon’s breathtaking vastness,
New Orleans, New York City, and Washington, DC—
each a postcard memory,
a testament to the beauty and diversity of this land.
And when we’d return
to hometown Chicago once more
I’d look at the worn-out map,
the highways’ now familiar tracks,
and think of how every curve,
every turn,
had shaped us—
the long shared journey of family
marked in asphalt and memory.
© 2025, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1963)
