When I was a child,
I dreamt of road trips,
drawing endless pictures
of the RVs and buses
I would be living in,
as I chewed up the miles
and spat them out behind me.

By age eight,
there was no question about it all;
it was happening
and it was obvious.

My mother laughed
about my bus obsession,
but it only grew.

What I find funny now
is that nothing changed,
and decades later,
I'm doing exactly what I dreamt of.

And while I look forward
with untold excitement
at the possibilities
that lie ahead,
and the sweet relief
from the burden of rent,
there is,
of course,
an insecurity
that must be addressed.

But then,
I've been planning this
since I was eight,
so I suppose
I've probably thought about everything
by now.

A month from now,
I'll be packing down
the last of the boxes
for delivery to some charity drop point,
in order to lighten the load
as much as I can,
before setting out with the simple goal
of existing happily.

You'd be surprised
at how much planning
can go into taking it easy.
But when you have
a hundred-thousand miles ahead of you,
you have to make a plan.

So here's to freedom.