With the exception of the well-worn path along the Massachusetts Turnpike to Boston I don’t usually do much driving. Andy has been the driver of the family. He’s better at it, he enjoys it, and I’ve been lucky in that respect. On a recent Saturday morning, however, I got in the car and spent the day mostly driving – partly in the service of ferreting out a new phone and provider, and partly for the sake of the drive itself. “Washing the dishes to wash the dishes†so to speak.
February is not the prettiest month for a car ride, but it’s certainly better than November. There was a fresh coating of snow and ice lending winter enchantment to the surroundings, and though it was cold outside the heated seat of the Mini Cooper kept me toasty. I drove all over Colonie and Latham, stopping at every cel phone provider along the way, skirted through Niskayuna and Schenectady after spending a moment in Faddegon’s, and eventually found my way to Amsterdam to see if their Michael’s had any special beads for a coat I’m working on. I’m at my best when working on something, no matter how frivolous or silly it may seem to you.
Filling the car at a Market Street gas station, I felt the early chill of the waning afternoon and knew the sun was about to descend. I drove over the Mohawk River and got back on the Thruway, but instead of heading home, I got off a few exits early and found myself following the way to where Andy lived when I first met him.
I barely remembered which roads and turns to take but instinct guided me, and things looked thrillingly familiar. Something compelled me to take this old route, back from a time when we were first getting to know each other. Maybe it was a rare brush with nostalgia. Maybe it was just a wish to return to a happier place and a simpler time. Maybe I was in the mood to look back over the past two decades.
I passed a place that used to be a deli, but the cow was no longer on the roof. I passed the church where we said goodbye to Andy’s Mom. When I reached Carman Plaza and saw the corner ice cream store, I knew I had reached Nathaniel Drive. The sign for Nathaniel Place, once so prominent and unmissable, had been dwarfed by the vegetation and landscaping that had grown up around it. Yes, it made sense. Certain things looked smaller, and many years had passed since I was last here
I pulled the car over and paused in the afternoon sun as it was going down. This was the home where I first met Andy. It was in the dark of a late summer night in July, and we had no idea the adventures on which we were about to embark. I remember snowy days, holiday parties, cherry blossoms hovering over the back deck, and little vases that Andy would fill with fragrant roses from the garden.
The house stands quietly, not even winking at me despite how long we’ve known each other, and it’s time to go. I turn back onto Liberty then onto the main road, past the Pizza Gram where the jalapeno poppers remain the best I’ve ever had, past the candy store where they sold white fluffy teddy bears with hearts on their paws at this very time of the year, then past Willow Street where he grew up, and the fire station where they blew the horn as his dad drove by for the final time.
Tears fill my eyes as Prospect Hill Cemetery rises to my left. The steep road is covered in snow and looks treacherous. I’m too distracted to notice whether the magnificent house at Rose Hill, one of Andy’s favorites, is still there, and soon I’m passing the restaurant where we first heard that Andy’s Mom had passed away. Maybe this is why I’m crying. So much of Andy’s history has happened here, so much heartache and so much love.
I keep driving as a moon that looks like it might be full rises ahead of me. Pulling over in a parking lot, I take a picture of it, wondering if it will watch over us or if it will wreak havoc. Part of it is destiny. Part of it is will.
When I finally get back home it is dark. The days have begun to stay lighter for longer, but we are not there yet.
