A reoccurring dream: I’ve returned to Flagstaff. Arizona, where I went to college for two years at the start of my twenties. In the dream I am driving down Route 66, headed toward my old apartment, crying all the way. I cry like my heart is breaking, because it is: I miss this place terribly, and the return brings all those feelings to the surface.
I wonder what life circumstance sparks this dream in me. I wonder if the dream will ever go away. I wonder if I’ll ever return to Arizona.
When I first visited Flagstaff, long before I packed my bags and moved cross-country, I had a profound sense that I would move there one day. It was as though present and future had tangled together, just for a second, and I existed in places at once. I did move there, a year later, transferring my college credits and packing my Mazda full of thrift store dishes and other necessities. But Flagstaff is a long way from home and family, so when I graduated, I moved back. And I’ve been dreaming about it ever since.