Flawed asphalt

7/12/07

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.”
-Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Which was the road not taken? Oh, hey, wait, you work in Southeast D.C., right? You remember that corner? That one on Massachusetts Avenue, the one with that public hospital?
Umm… no.
No? Are you sure? It was near the Anacostia River, across the street from that arena where they have performing circuses sometimes.
Nope, sorry man – I just started working there three years ago.
Three years ago? Oh, well, no wonder. Never mind then.
Never mind?
Nothing, it’s just… the place was shut down six years ago. I should’ve realized…

Perhaps it’s a human flaw. Memories are heralds of the past, the unchanging past. How can they survive as references of an ever-changing future? We are creatures of habit. We grew up being told destinations and landmarks, not directions.

I was in Grafton, MA, for a week or two this summer, spending time with my baby cousins. We are heading out one afternoon, nothing special, and as soon as the word “out” escapes my aunt’s mouth, Rohan, one and a half years old, raises a racket. I could hear his, “I sure as hell am not being left behind,” under all the sounds of indignation. His sister, Riya, three and a half years old, is more worldly, of course – as we drive along a road, she turns to me, a stranger to Massachusetts, and informs me, with as indulging an expression on her face as a toddler can have, that this road goes to the Indian store, where her Mama has to return a movie and rent another one.

As we pull out and head back on another road, her mother says, “Riya, why don’t you show Ekta didi [older sister] where your school is?” She jumps up excitedly in her seat and gestures to my right – sure enough, nestled among the trees lining the road is her daycare center. We drive by, blurs of green in the windows, and a minute later, Riya lets out an imperative, “Mama!”
“Yes, Riya?” her mother responds.
“We have to go to Dunkin’ Donuts!”
“There is no Dunkin’ Donuts here, beta [dear].”
Never try to fool a determined kid, especially one with a daycare vocabulary. “Yes there is, you silly goose,” she giggles. “It’s over there!” And sure enough, as we drive out of the trees, there it is, right next to the gas station. You go kiddo.

We had our days. Every road was simply a means to an end, a keeper of ice cream treasures and playground adventures. Before we knew what road we were on, we knew what was on that road: Giant; the McDonald’s and Taco Bell across the street from each other in Langley Park; the post office; that mailbox with a twisty metal post in the form of chain links instead of a standard wooden post, the one on the way to Costco.

But those landmarks and destinations, they don’t stay forever. We want to plant our feet in concrete, in our comfort zones, eternally flawed in our desire to hold on, to draw out our memories and follow their paths until we beat them memorably into the asphalt.

There’s a catch, though, because the asphalt will stay, but we won’t. The street names will stay, but the street-side buildings won’t. Kind of hard to get your GPS to tell you how to reach “that street in Germantown with the big, metal globe.” What if it isn’t there tomorrow? And if it’s gone, is it really so awful? And reading the map upside-down ain’t gonna get you anywhere, man – Southeast D.C. is that way.