Our last fight was incongruously serene. Of course, we were dining in an upscale restaurant, so neither of us so much as raised our voices. The immensity of our marital catastrophe kept us polite despite our mutual aches of emptiness and pain, our laundry lists of wrongs and resentments. Why bother? was the mantra.
“You know your marriage failed when the only thing you agree on is your relief you didn’t have kids,” I said as we parted.
As I got on my motorcycle that night, I had the idea.
What do I remember of my journey this past year?
Standing on the deck of the freighter as we passed through the Panama Canal.
The Agentinian customs agent who didn’t believe I wasn’t planning on selling my motorcycle.
The Bengali truck driver on the Silk Road who gave me a lift when I broke down.
This road right here, right now.