It passed me or maybe I passed it.

A silver capsule

sliding through the mid-morning haze,

tucked into the slow lane,

shining like it remembered what we forgot.

A Streamline.

Not just a trailer, but something round and gleaming

like memory, like possibility on wheels.

I don’t camp. Not willingly.

I fear wild animals,

sweat easily,

require coffee before kindness.

I like real beds,

hot water that doesn’t involve propane,

and cookware that never knew the taste of sandy bacon grease.

I don’t belong in that trailer.

And yet—

I ached for it.

For the way it held its shape against the wind.

For how it seemed to carry a whole country’s

once-upon-a-time in its polished skin.

There is something about that curve that calls to us.

A softness made aerodynamic.

A future you can hitch to.

The promise of motion without consequence.

We all want that.

We want to go

without leaving anyone behind.

To be sleek, unburdened,

full of beans and gasoline and a clean map.

The Streamline knows this.

It’s a cathedral of chrome

for the American spirit—

hopeful, mobile, always westbound.

But I know—

we don’t fit inside as well as we once thought.

Freedom costs more now.

Gas is expensive,

the world is hotter,

and the road isn’t so open when you’re scared to break down.

Still—

when I saw it glide beside me,

I felt something rise from a part of me older than sense.

Something that said:

move,

start over,

shine anyway.

It passed me, or I passed it.

But part of me is still trailing behind—

following that glint of longing

down the middle of the country,

toward a place

that probably never was—

but still feels like home.