Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.
Staring down the road in front of him as the mostly empty highway passed by faster than the speed limit allowed, he drowned out his thoughts with loud radio music and rapid eye darting. If some notion started to whisper in his ear he would blink and glance hard to the right or to the left, out at the distant horizon and beyond. Sometimes he would shake his head abruptly, trying to clear some picture from his Etch A Sketch mind.
When he pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse, the only structure for miles in the flat wheat landscape, he clunked the old car into park and killed the motor. Two children, his, were tumbling enthusiastically down the porch steps toward him. Unfolding his tall, thin frame from the car and closing the door with a creak, he blinked at their approach, squinting at the sun far away behind them. His son, the four-year-old, crashed into his long legs and threw his little arms around them. He reached down and rested his hand on his son's shoulder, smiling absently at his daughter, six, waiting her turn. No words were exchanged. He hadn't prepared for the moment, hadn't given any thought to what he might tell them about where he had been, how long he might stay, why he would leave.
There is a kind of broken that makes every thought, every active engagement with life, more than one can bear. Every plan for the day feels like a setup. Every dream for tomorrow feels like a trap. Every conversation is an accusation. Every touch is a blow. You cannot listen and you cannot talk. You have to let the sights and sounds wash over you, wash through, keep going without you or carry you along.
He lives on the horizon now, too far away to see clearly, too far to hear you even if you scream. He is always on the journey and never arriving. He lives, broken, on the horizon. You cannot save him. You cannot even reach him. You should not even try. Bring your children back into your house and talk to them, laugh with them. Make your plans for today, dream your dreams for tomorrow, without him. Soon, within a couple of days, his car will be gone and you won't have to listen to his silence or watch his blinking stare ever again. He will take his bleak sadness, his brokenness, with him when he goes, and his story will not be yours. The best you can do for him is let him go. It's the only thing he wants anymore.
Long ago he came to the mistaken conclusion that expectations in life were dangerous, to be avoided.
Hello, friends. Bleak, I know. It's just what came out today. Whimsy will return, I'm sure.
Later. Love.
