Who’s gonna pay attention to your dreams?

Who’s gonna plug their ears when you scream?

I hate mile marker 30 on Interstate 89 South.

The long, slender, green sign pretty close to right at the exit to Randolph, VT. It marks the last half hour or so of Vermont driving on I-89. And just over the Connecticut River is West Lebanon, NH, and the most depressing Dunkin Donuts (I guess just Dunkin now?) in the world.

That parking lot was my destination pretty much every other Sunday afternoon. Where I’d drop my kids off to their mom after our weekend time together. Where we’d eat the least fun donuts in the world if we had time before saying goodbye.

So I hate mile marker 30 because that is exactly where my daughter would ask, “How much more time do we have, Daddy?”

I hated answering.

“About half an hour, sweetie.

The car would grow silent for a bit. Then one of the other two would say something inane to break the mood.

(By the way, yes, I know. I wrote a bit about this a few days ago. Had to take my kid back to college tonight, so it’s on my mind.)

Beyond that last 30 minutes, after dropping the kids off, I had the long, quiet, two-hour drive back home. Lots of time to think and think and think until I was overthinking.

I don’t know if I’ve driven another route more. I know it’s hills and turns and curves; where black ice is most likely to hide and when to adjust the visor to keep the setting sun from hitting my eyes; the spots I’ve pulled over for flat tires or to just take a minute.

It’s been a few years since the trip has been a regular thing. Taking the kid back to college this evening,

I discovered something.

Even after all this time, I still hate mile marker 30 on Interstate 89 South.