I’m scaling the Adirondacks during a snow storm going 35 miles an hour in a rented sedan in between home and the place I grew up when I realize that home is no longer the place I grew up—it’s a 2 bedroom apartment in Humboldt Park, Chicago. My knuckles are white from holding on to the steering wheel so hard. I’m tired, calling in a few favors thanks less to belief and more to a Catholic upbringing.
”Just get me back to Boston safely,” I ask the universe. Touching my mother’s necklace, I ask again.
The only person that can get me off this mountain is me, and I’m crawling.
4 hours later, I’m back in Boston and it’s not nearly as comforting as I remember it to be.
There’s this part of 93 that rises above the rest of the highway, giving you this perfect view of Boston right…
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