Pushing Uphill

When I was in school
we looked at maps of the US

and learned that north was up
and south was down.

Driving from Delaware to Worcester
I think of this again and again

as I see the exit for Mount Holly, NJ, where I lived
the entire first year of my life;

as I pass the exit for Fort Dix
where I was born;

as I toot the traditional horn
at the sign for Freehold,
home town of the Boss,
who kept me always breathing
and frequently ecstatic
through teenage years
that weighed on me like lead;

as I go over the George Washington Bridge
and through the Bronx
where my heart sings and snaps with recognition
at the signs and lights and profane noise
of the City that first broke me open;

as I cross the line into Connecticut
where I shift in my seat and tell myself
"not so far now"
as I ready myself for the tuners racing past me
even as I hit 90 miles an hour
on the empty width of Interstate 91
north of New Haven;

as I lean (never touching the brakes) into the long curve
that takes me from there
into the even greater voids
along Interstate 84 north of Hartford
where I shake myself again as I realize
I’m doing this all faster now than I ever did before;

as I shiver through the chill of the open window of the tollbooths
while getting on and off of the Mass Turnpike;

as I turn off the key
in the driveway
and rush into the house,
leaving my luggage in the car for now
because I know she’s waiting inside.

Those maps we memorized
tried to tell me
that going home would always be
about pushing uphill,

but I know now
that the place where I’m currently sleeping
is just one part of home:
the place where I stand
and look back on my travels from a height;
a warm place where I can easily see
that every place I have ever been
is home.