Through My Rearview

I’m behind the wheel just after dusk, cruising down McGalliard Road. The distant rumble of a freight train echoes through the air, mingling with the soft click of my seatbelt winding into place. I crack the window and feel a chill ripple in—mixed with the tang of freshly cut grass drifting in from backyard lawns.

In my rearview mirror, the domes and spires of Ball State University glow amber under newly lit streetlamps. A lone barista steps out of the corner deli and calls after me, “Kayla, your usual’s on the counter!” Her voice carries across the gravel parking lot, a small moment of warmth before I slip back into solitude.

Tailights stretch into the distance, but I notice something odd: a brand-new silver SUV parked beside a battered blue pickup. It’s a contradiction that mirrors my own path—half polished dreams, half dusty reality. Further down, the neon marquee of the old Uptown Theatre flickers its last “COMING SOON” sign, while footsteps crunch past Mrs. Jenkins’s porch, where she waves every evening despite the peeling white siding behind her.

Each landmark is a bookmark in my story: the deli that fueled midnight shifts, the bungalow I walked away from when I knew I had to choose more than a routine life, and that theater where I never got the chance to buy a ticket. In that fleeting reflection, I see my past—trash bags hauled at dawn, lawns mowed under summer glare, late-night journaling by lamp light—and I realize every mile behind me is fuel for the road ahead.

When I finally turn onto my street, the mirror goes dark, and I’m face to face with my own front steps—home, business, challenges waiting in the wings. Next time, I’ll leave the road behind and step into the Story Book Garden, where I learned that growth often hides behind the smallest doors.