The day after my father's funeral, I drove past my own exit and kept going.
I checked into Room 14 at a motel off the interstate. The sheets were stiff. The lamp threw a yellow half-circle on the wall.
I sat on the bed and pulled open the nightstand drawer. A Gideons Bible, a phone book from 2019, and a paint swatch fan somebody had left behind.
I flipped through it for an hour. Beiges, grays, whites with names like Quiet Harbor and Morning Dew. I circled one with the motel pen. Dried Thyme. I don't know why.
I left before dawn. Paid cash. Didn't sleep.
The swatch is still in my wallet, behind my library card. Sometimes I take it out at red lights and look at it.
I think I was just looking for something small I could choose. Everything else that week had already been decided for me.