My own is medium length but when I was in 2nd grade running to the bus, it felt like a mile. A mile with two rusty rocks on either side. Perfect for my sister to hit while backing out with her car. We would collect smaller rocks from the unfinished driveway and gift it to my mom to “remember us” during the school day. It’s memory lane. It’s a comforting feeling to pull into after a long workday. Some winters it slips and slides. Some winters it emits groans from my family when they’re asked to fetch the mail. In summer it’s Picasso’s canvas. Chalk litters the concrete and swirls of sunflowers are traced by young hands of my little sister. Rainwater washes warped drawings away into the adjacent grass. It repeats.

My Nana’s is medium length but when I was in 4th grade running to the end to collect her favorite lavender, it felt like a mile. A mile with loads of lavender on either side. A driveway with as much history as America. My grandpa’s company truck always backed in. The birch tree looming over, allowing little leaves like helicopters fall to the concrete to be scavenged later. The garden to the left, full of hydrangeas planted.  The driveway where I first scraped my knee. The driveway where I burnt the bottom of my feet on. The driveway where my mother did the same.