The Spaces Between Your Fingers

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“Matt! Jenna! Luke! Time to go!” Dad calls as we pile into our black Chevrolet Suburban.  Laughing, Matt shoves me aside, Jenna exclaims “I can’t wait to play car games!”, and I nestle into the backseat ready to receive the rays of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida.  We do this every year as Easter weekend approaches.  After a day of cramming t-shirts, swimsuits, tennis rackets, and sneakers into our suitcases, Dad latches our bicycles onto the trunk, my siblings and I mound blankets onto the flattened backseats, and our chattering quintet settles into our SUV for the annual drive. I enjoy winding through the countryside and sitting on I-95 as much as I like Matt pinching my cheeks and feeling my breakfast flop with every jolting turn.  “How much longer? How much longer? HOW MUCH LONGER?!?” I badger my dad.  “We still have a long time, Luke.” Dad laughs.  Ignoring his reply, I repeat the same question every thirty seconds.  Jenna shouts, “Nebraska! Georgia! Alaska! Dad, Matt, Mom, Luke! Look Alaska, the license plate! Can you believe it? Alaska!”  Our incessant babbling echoes throughout the lengthy drive.  Glancing out the window, I watch as we whiz past mountains, horse farms, valleys, and towns.  Ugh. Blah. Sigh. Snore.  Then, as my lips part to proclaim “I can’t sit here any longer,” I spot palm trees waving to me from the roadside. “We’re here!” Matt yelps.  A smile stretches across my face as I imagine greeting Nana and Pappap, unloading my bike for a ride around the neighborhood, venturing to Disneyworld, and enjoying unending hours of fun with my family. 

Floridian Vacation

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