2011 - Mississippi School for Mathematics and Science

merely a barrier between my two homes that must
be crossed — a line in the sand that is the result of
North Mississippi begging me to stay and South
Mississippi pulling me back into its loving arms. So
I continue to drive.
Surely hour three! Heidelberg, Laurel,
Hattiesburg. Does it matter anymore? Do places
need names anymore? Have I been driving for so
long that society has changed its entire method of
identification and done away with titles all together?
I know that wherever I am, though, I’ve passed
the longest lasting construction zone to ever exist,
having to slow down to sixty, then forty, then thirty,
then twenty miles per hour and eventually deciding
that the first words ever spoken by my caveman
ancestors must have been, “I’ve heard they say it
will be done by Christmas...” Somewhere in that
sea of construction, I also passed a black billboard
featuring the words, “You know that ‘love thy neighbor’
thing? I meant it. — God” and resolved to find
out if God got a discount just for being God or had
to pay full price. But, then again, perhaps it doesn’t
matter, and perhaps I’m a little tired of driving, and
perhaps if I click my heels really, REALLY hard, a
wormhole will open up and I’ll find myself pulling
into a familiar gravel driveway.
Definitely hour four. Maybe. The clicking
didn’t work. I’m still on the road, but I’ve passed
Hattiesburg and sensed The Change. I am officially
on the Gulf Coast, closer to home than ever, and I
could have sworn that I just saw a seagull fly over
head! Now I’ve just got to keep going until I can
turn onto the MS-603 S, zip through acres upon
acres of rural nothingness, and turn left when I get
to Crump Road. I am pure focus.
Hour four and a half. I’ve resorted to composing
and singing songs along the lines of, “I’m almost
home, I’m almost home! Whoo! I’m almost home,
I’m almost home! Whoo!” and imagining that the
hundreds of cows and horses and sheep that I am
passing are cheering me on, delighted that “I’m
almost home.” But I’m onto those sneaky farm
animals. I know that they know as well just as I do
that, somehow, the longest part of the journey will
be once I actually re-enter Hancock County, just
like the longest day in the sixteen-day wait for ACT
scores to be released is the very last one.
Hour four and three-quarters. Is that what I
think it is? It is! It must be! I’ve made it, I’ve crossed
the invisible border of Kiln A.K.A. “The Kill,”
Mississippi, and I can now see the painted side of
Dolly’s Gas Station. The mural, which must be older
than I am, celebrates Kiln being home to a football
team that once featured Brett Farve — a football
team that almost gained the title of most consecutive
losses in Mississippi, but won a single game in
my freshman year and went straight back to losing.
Nevertheless, I am glad to see Dolly’s and glad that I
can begin to snap out of the madness brought on by
my hours of isolation. One, two, three more miles,
and I’m taking a left onto Crump Road and a right
at a mailbox that Mr. Paul, my former bus driver,
seemed intent on destroying every day for the five
years he drove me home. Shaking with anticipation,
I steer my way up a winding, gravel driveway,
try to avoid hitting the hoards of dogs launching
themselves at my metal death-trap, and park the
car (three times because my dad is watching). And
then, all at once, having endured slight insanity and
loneliness and miles of boredom, having seen trees
and chicken and cows and lakes, I am finally able to
step out of the car, break out of my limbo, greet my
family, and find the facilities. n
Dangling Danger
Aaron Williamson
Photograph
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