Love can be radical too

I was driving down the New Orleans interstate the other day. My phone and gps had died. But I can get pretty much anywhere in the city, eventually, by memory.
I wondered at the people who had spent a lifetime here. Or anywhere.

I have a lot of cities I can get around by memory, more or less. Maybe I don't know the most direct way to get somewhere, but I can figure it out.

Because I never stay.

It's like people.

I know a lot of them. But maybe I never have to work through the stickiness of that best friend you've known for a decade or more. I slip past any conflicts with a full gas tank and an obscene amount of frequent flier miles.

What's the point in arguing? I'll see you in a year or two. 

We can all point to Bandit. That's commitment!

He's a dog. Let's not forget. He's a dog. We won't be friends in twenty years either.

I like when old people tell me about their marriages. I try to imagine their roughest years. Lying in bed next to someone who feels like a stranger, or who cheated, or who drank too much for a while.

I wouldn't know.

I just leave.

And, really, I take pride in leaving. I take great pride in not staying in abusive jobs, or relationships that make me cry myself to sleep. I am proud of myself, because I feel that any woman who takes care of herself like that is a fucking radical. I am Wonder Woman each time I walk away, maybe with only the belongings I can fit in my car. I believe in myself most in the moments when I have no idea where I'll be tomorrow.

But I do wonder.

I wonder about the magic that grows.

When people fall in love a fifth time.

Understand how roots cross with ephemera and a Tuesday mood and an old t-shirt.

Look up and realize something old is new again.

I wouldn't know.

I wouldn't know.

I think maybe I'd like to.
I know that in this painful world,
love can be radical too.