Highway Song

The distance between two places is both relative and absolute. It’s absolute in that the distance can be marked absolutely through measurable means, and it’s relative because that defined space is comparable, contextual, to the surrounding world. When I was a child, relatively short distances seemed to be eternally long. Short distances, like the distance between Montgomery and Selma, Alabama. Short distances, like the distance between January and December. 

Interstate 85 has an inconspicuous beginning and end. Its northern terminus resides in Petersburg, Virginia, and its southern terminus in Montgomery, Alabama. The pinnacle of this permanently frozen meandering river must be Atlanta, where its banks widen, and its currents corral. Same river but vastly different from what comes behind and before.

As a child, I was only familiar with a certain part of this river. It was its end, although I never thought of it as such. I couldn’t conceive of an irreducibly vast expanse stretching out behind what I considered an eternally long distance between my hometown and its end in Montgomery. The end of I-85 was more of a beginning to me, both literally and figuratively. That’s where I was born, just off the interstate. And it was the beginning of the longest stretch of the journey to my grandparents. I-85 gave way to Hwy 80, cutting through an endless mosaic of farms and woods. 

A few days ago, I made the same journey that I’d made countless times as a child. I entered I-85 in my hometown of Opelika, made my way into Montgomery, and spilled out onto Hwy 80. I took in the last few signs of civilization, comprising a regional airport to the left and a Citgo station, about 6 decades past its prime, on the right. I geared up for this indominable stretch only to discover my arrival in Selma in what seemed like a few moments. It can’t be, I thought to myself as I rolled past Craig Field. How did I get here so fast? 

It's the last day of 2025, and I find myself contemplating time and both the absolute and relative distance between things. Time has a way of expanding distance in some ways. I think of relationships that have come and gone, or dormant memories stirred through an old picture album. But time also has a way of compressing things. The borders of my known world have expanded beyond Selma to the west and Opelika to the east. I’ve discovered more of the river upstream. That stretch that seemed so indominable is now set in a much larger context. I believe there is a correlation when it comes to the years of our lives. If a year is like a piece of pie, those pieces get smaller with time. The distance between is absolute and relative. 

I’m neither a young man nor an old man. I find myself somewhere in the middle. Life has taken me to many places. Some I’ve set out to and others I’ve stumbled upon. The distance between things has mostly compressed. Birthdays and new years come faster. Nothing slows. Time marches on more quickly than ever. Not in the absolute sense but in the relative one. Relative or not, it is the time that is proving to be life’s greatest commodity. It’s a nonrenewable resource distributed equally among earth’s living in 24 daily hours and 365 yearly days. The distance between isn’t getting any shorter. So, what will we do along the way?