Unabridged Version

With presents packed into leftover retail bags placed strategically in the trunk, and a homemade potato dish releasing its scent throughout the entire vehicle, we headed out for our traditional holiday travel destination. After several minutes of temperature control adjustments made solely through indirect comments from each traveler indicating an uncomfortable state, the radio's tunes and the repetitive sound of the tires on pavement began to lull me into an isolating fog. Although every now and then the voices in the front seat pulled me off my train of thought, I mostly found peace in my stare out the back seat window.

I have found that my travels in the back seat of a vehicle allow me to really see my surroundings. Not that I do not physically see the same things when in the front passenger seat, but I feel as though my obligation to the driver as a companion of sorts somewhat distracts me from the immediate environment's details. In addition, the front seat experience does not allow me adequate processing time to appreciate these details as I feel I could. This holiday was no different.

While riding along, I saw rearview windows blocked completely with beautifully wrapped presents; brightly colored paper and metallically shiny bows. I saw dogs of all kinds moving frantically back and forth in their spot of the vehicle, pacing almost with a curiosity of the excited energy spilling out onto the roads this very day. There was an older man and a boy walking alongside an outer road, bundled up from head to toe, holding hands and moving forward with intention. There were even other faces in the backseat of cars looking out into the world with expressions that, too, symbolized inner reflection and thought. With each passerby, I couldn't help but wonder about his or her story; who are these people, really? Even within my own traveling vehicle, I wondered this very question.

A couple weeks ago, during my visit to Barnes and Noble, I was meandering through the Bargain Books section of the store. It was then that I came across several unabridged collections, and the very notion of my own unabridged version; the unabridged version of Rachelle. Does anyone really know this version of me? Do I?

There are so many aspects of our life, while maybe not forgotten, are certainly edited…removing the raw experience and all the emotion and thought associated…so that we may move forward and focus on the now. It seems that holding on to each and every detail of the past would cloud the present and future; maybe making the ability to grow a struggle in itself, if not impossible. But even in the chance that we truly know and embrace the unabridged version of ourselves, is it even possible to share it with another? This then begs the question, "Do we really know each other?" I sometimes think I know just as much about my own family as I know about the stranger in the back seat of the vehicle passing by. Yet, somehow, the titles and frequency of exchange have convinced me otherwise…despite the lack of personal disclosure.