The In-Between

There is a stretch of every big move where you belong to no place at all.

No signal. No map that helps. Just a straight road, a big sky, and the choice to keep going. Frida drove past the last place her mountain was visible a long way back, so the mirror holds only empty highway now. The mountain rides along anyway, the way home does.

Everything outside the window changes by the hour: the light, the land, the language on the billboards. The one thing in the cupholder does not. A glass bottle from a valley in Puebla, its water older than her drive by about eight years, cold when she needs it, familiar when nothing else is.

Keep driving.

On the road from Puebla to Austin. Follow at @drinktehuacan.