Road to Duncan

I used to pile into the breakfast nook across from my dad a long time ago. We lived in Detroit. He would have an atlas out, and it would be turned to the pages of the Southwest. I would sit and follow his words as I read upside-down the many places where he had been. He told me stories about Dallas, El Paso, the Arizona rocks, Yuma, and the California coast. He longed to be there again. He loved the heat, the dryness, the desert, the mountains—it was his endless daydream of remembered adventure.