Ode to an Impending Journey
At times he couldn’t wait to get going.
He felt more alive
Moving toward the mission,
Out on the road.
Solo, alone. An island unto himself.
There is comfort and respite in movement.
So much peace and quiet,
Solitude in its glory.
Not some 70s-esque airport,
Full of barriers and rules,
Overpriced, horrible food,
And funnels, mazes and people,
All jockeying and gaming for position.
Just the road and him.
He could pick the direction and go.
It could be a new route,
Or even one driven 28 times before.
Oh, but on the 29th time-
Who knew what was in store?
One never really knows.
That made it enticing.
It sort of beckoned like an old friend
That you had fond memories of;
One that had treated you well.
One you could trust.
But nothing less.
Reliable. Honest. Truthful.
No hidden agenda.
What you saw is what you got.
And this is rare now,
In this modern world held out as better than the past.
I don’t know; I don’t think so.
The road is that old friend;
The one you don’t spend much time with,
Or even communicate with very often.
But when you do,
You pick up right where you left off
As if no time has passed since your last meeting.
One who if it all went south,
You could call all those years later,
And they’d answer.
And listen and be honest and truthful
And there’d be some undefinable peace there,
Something hard to catalogue,
Difficult to explain to the uninitiated,
But utterly present.
It’s surprising, as always, how easy the act of leaving is, and how good it feels;
The world suddenly becomes rich with possibility.
We are never so assured of purpose
As when going somewhere to accomplish something important.
All that from a road?
All of that,