No one can provide directions for what the trip from Manhattan to Poughkeepsie on a cold and rainy February morning feels like; you can only get the turn by turn and step by step route, you can't get the feeling unless you drive it yourself. No one can tell you what it feels like to drive up to one thousand one hundred and thirty-three feet in a car and look out over the Hudson River as you drive north along the Taconic on a cold February morning. You can chart the mile markers, count the number of exits and towns between Manhattan and Pougkeepsie, even alphabetize them if you like, though no one can guide you through the feeling that comes forth while having the sunroof slightly open and the driver's side window rolled down a few inches so that the wind for a while can brush up against your face. These feelings aren't archived in a database and tucked neatly within a machine. They're saved somewhere deeper, somewhere eternal ––– in a place where they'll always be remembered only because they can't be forgotten.
February 13th, 2020