stains you can't get out

Dennis and I are on the road and find ourselves in Tennessee tonight. This trip has been very different despite the consistent variables: me, the car, the trajectory, the songs on the radio, the trail mix and the yellow dashes on the roads. Dennis is 15 and I am 25. We haven't lived together since he was 8 and I was 18. Since then he has moved into my old room, has had my old teachers, and listens to my parents talk to me every week during our Sunday night phone calls. It must feel strange to be a youngest child with the legacy of older siblings hovering around. I feel weird enough thinking about the legacy of all previous ancestors and the how their story trickles into my own. We haven't talked about it or even very much at all yet-- it's kind of hard to figure out where to start. The duration of our shared memories is about the same as that of our independent ones. But the silence is a pretty good noise too, and I'm sure the trip will happen how it's supposed to happen as we roll our way into Arkansas.