[Motorboat Cruiser]

Back when I was little, I only had my vivid imagination and a box of worn toys to get me through those long and boring visits. As an only child, there were no siblings to commiserate with. And so, with these weathered toys, some of which my father had played with when he was a boy, I created fanciful worlds that would occupy my mind for hours on end. My toy of choice, my partner in crime through these escapades, was a simple stuffed bear. Together, we passed the time in the summer sun – a trusty friend that had never let me down in the many years that I had visited, always ready to suggest a colorful adventure for us to embark upon. For as far as my memory is able to trace back, this bear was the first thing out of the box when I arrived and the last thing to go back before I left. Buddies to the end, we were.

And now, as I pass through the vacant desert night, music loud and muscles already fatigued, my mission is simple and yet, oddly profound – to bust that stupid bear out of its boxed prison in South Dakota. I take a final swig off of the now-cold coffee I bought before I left, light one of many cigarettes at my disposal, and nudge the gas pedal with a sense of purpose. If all works out as planned, the empty passenger seat to my right will soon be occupied by a ragged and old stuffed comrade, strapped in securely and seeing the world outside of Platte for the first time. And somehow I sense that, along those battered and desolate old highways, we might both be seeing the world for the first time.

After grandma died, the family gatherings ended, and in many ways, so did the sense of family itself. We all returned to our previous lives, scattered in every corner of the country, never managing to find reason enough to gather around a big dining table again and play cards into the wee hours. And after my parents passed away less than a decade later, leaving me alone in this world, it truly signified the end of family as I knew it. The pain of their loss was enough reason to shut out the memories of the past - for better or worse. And yet, in the years that followed, through the madness and stress of a solitary urban existence, I’ve slowly begun to lose perspective. I’ve begun to lose touch with who I am, where I came from … where I am going.

Something important was surely missing from my life - this much I knew, although I hadn’t a clue what it could possibly be. My writing, once capable of unraveling vivid tales, was now shallow and lifeless and my imagination a mere fraction of its former self – far removed from the days when a stuffed bear was all I needed to create. With its glassy eyes and furry paws, it had supplied a muse like no other I have ever crossed paths with since. And today, a week after celebrating my 40th birthday, as I stared intently at that old photograph I had taken as a teenager, I wondered whether that bear might still hold those same powers. And much to my surprise, I’m apparently willing to drive all the way across the country just to find out. I know our reunion will be bittersweet, for it will allow old painful memories to blossom with a vengeance. But damn it, at least I might be able to actually feel my soul again, rather than just waking each morning as a shell of my former self. If I can regain even a fraction of my boyhood vibrancy and childlike wonder, this journey certainly won’t be for naught.

Change comes at a turtle’s pace, if at all, in Platte, South Dakota. In all the years I visited this little town in my youth, I don’t actually remember anything changing at all as a matter of fact. And somehow (don’t ask me how) I just know that Lydia’s humble old abode will still be there, likely boarded up and long-forgotten, just as my soul has been. Somehow, I know that my bear friend will be reclining in the same place I left him all those years ago, wondering why he was so abruptly abandoned by his young friend after so many years of sticking by my side. I’ll have plenty of time to explain as we make our way to his new home in sunny California. A thousand miles of tears, of laughter and of simply catching up on lost time.

“Hang on, bear. I’m on my way!” I say excitedly to myself - my stomach already knotting in anticipation, even though there are many miles left to travel into this good night. For as crazy as it must sound, within this bear is a forgotten piece of me - a life I turned my back on, a history I assumed would serve no purpose in my future endeavors. And up until this morning, I think I truly believed that. I assumed that I could haphazardly throw chunks of my past into the trash, and yet, somehow, still feel whole. But life doesn’t work that way … and so I drive … through a vast landscape of nothing in an attempt to find everything.