I'm sitting at the far end of the Lowes parking lot, parked between an SUV and a little red car. Bruce Springsteen is on the radio singing about glory days and the clouds look close enough to touch. They are dark and heavy and wet. I can smell the rain with my windows rolled up.
I figure the cars out here belong to employees; nobody in their right mind would park this far from the entrance.
Which is why I'm here.
I haven't gone into the store, and I don't plan to. I just want to sit here.
In a town this size, there isn't much space for anonymity. Someone you know is always at the other end of the aisle, a few heads down the line, waving at you across the intersection while you wait for a green light.
And I don't feel like waving.
It occurs to me that I don't know what Springsteen is talking about.
It occurs to me that I never had any glory days.
That I'm still waiting, thinking about–glory days.
That I've been enduring my entire life: just one more month of school, two more weeks of summer, one more year to graduation, six more weeks until the baby is born or the toddler is trained or the van is paid off or the grass to come in.
What would they consist of–and will I recognize them?