Something like home just blew me out and onto the road, again.
The first time, I was drawn; not driven. And, that was the tenderest of beginnings; as violent as a birth. Then, I screamed out of my mother’s door anxious to escape the hardest loss and caught the whiff of the road. That first breath did hollow out my chest and the same intake gutted all familiarity and contempt.
Two score and five years later, limp after a thumping by marriage, asunder after 9/11 , keening and aware of my obsolescence, I saw myself as no more yielding than drenched ashes. Did I grow only to be more mortal than tender? Certainly, my biological drives waiver around chilled and my future’s utterly friable. Some terminal looms even though I once linked arms with my generation.
Both these Odysseys, the of my youth and the current march, were catapulted out of smithereens. There never was a “where” to be going to and certainly nowhere to return. I was all thumbs out, above sullen blacktop, readied for a free ride and hollering songs to stay myself . Then, I waited more bored than scared. How did age flip that algorithm?
Somehow. I advance, itinerant as a dust bowler, inching my way towards some golden state allegedly over the next rise of forbidding mountains. I stand still here fear smacked and absolutely more anxious than bored. After all. a glowing cozy flared and left me nothing but my heavy old feet treading a growling path. I move along, alone.