Endless miles speed by, cracked blacktop under cheap tires.
Corn fields sway in the wind, still inching up from the earth, and the farmers
lay quiet, praying for rain. A country
crooner hums the last few notes of his ballad as the radio pops and clicks, the
frequency fading into the distance behind.
A couple of 5-hour-energy bottles rattle around the floorboards, a coke
nestled into the cup holder, and drive through containers pile up on the
passenger seat. One flip-top of a crisp cardboard box, silver paper pulled from
the sheath, and a singular white cylinder slips free, seeking its flame and
inevitable end.
Where are you going?
The voice echoes through my head. I sit, contemplating the
reply.
“Away,” I say aloud.
Away from what?
“I’m not entirely sure.”
Are you running?
“Yes, I think I am.”
From what?
This question lingers in the air, written in the exhaled
smoke, dancing around the windshield.
“Not away. Toward.”
No questions follow immediately. A semi-truck rolls by, the sound rumbling
through my bones, rattling me and I watch as the driver nods my direction,
chews on a toothpick, and hangs his left arm out the window. His face is tired,
skin leathered, and eyes darting around like a frightened animal. I wonder if
others see me in the same manner as their little subcompacts blow by me, on the
way to exciting destinations. I think of the vacations being had, the last
minute road trips, the long drives to far off places, and all the trappings of
family life.
Only days earlier, not even a hundred hours, I’d said my
goodbye and buried the love of my life. Those dreams, they were all her. Those thoughts
of the future, the trips, the laughter and the anticipation, they were her,
too. We had marvelous dreams, fantastic ideas of places we would go, things we
would see, and nights we would spend entwined in distant lands. Her crimson
hair, flowing in the breeze on an isolated beach, freckles multiplying across
her ivory skin, as I watch her dance along the shore, chasing the waves and
playing tag with them.
She laughed at my long unkempt hair, my linen pants, worn
leather sandals. Called me her vagabond. The unlikely pair, she and I, had
somehow found one another among the masses, and built our little world. A
simple life, but a fulfilling one, we lived in harmony with one another; give
and take requires patience, understanding, and compassion, which we learned
with time. Our existence relied entirely on the happiness we created together.
Perfection still a long way off, but we were right.
My heart shattered the day she told me the end was coming.
She knew her time limited, and she dreamed for my peace. I smiled at her that
day, no tears, no anger. “You’re prefect, and everything will be fine.” I knew
my words hollow, and the promise empty, but none of that mattered. I would hold
her hand and laugh with her until the last breath. She knew I needed more. As
the time grew short, and she became so very thin, she begged me to live the
life we’d spoken of so many times. She helped me plan the beginning, organize
the world into a perfect little puzzle, pack the pieces into a truck and set
off for the next adventure. She described the things I would see in vivid
detail, the places in which she could envision me. Her final dreams were of me,
and my life. Without her. Somehow they made her smile and brought her peace,
even as each one tore daggers through me. I listened, played along, and planned
with her. She contained enough excitement for the both of us, so I floated on
hers and pretended to plan, too.
She described the woman I would meet and marry. She counted each
of my new bride’s lovely features and her flaws. She reminded me of all of the
ways I was when we’d first met, and of all of the ways I could love more. Her eyes danced as she spoke of the same
trips, the ones we were supposed to take together, and she giggled about the
ways in which I would fumble through so many things once again – the first
kiss, the proposal, the surprises. Her love poured from her body in those last
days, in ways one only hears about in song. I nodded along, hid my agony, and
held her while she dreamed.
As she drifted away, for the last time, she took my
face in her fragile little hands. Her emerald eyes pierced mine, “Promise me,
Thomas. Promise me you’ll find her, you’ll love her with everything you ever
had for me and so much more. Promise me you’ll see the world, dance along the
canyons, dive into the seas, and not waste one more moment. Promise me you’ll
live enough for both of us. Promise me.” Her words came at me with such
urgency, such fervor. My throat closed, I choked on my words, and my eyes
filled with tears. I only nodded my head at her and managed a small whisper. “I
promise, Hope. I promise.”
Cruising down the interstate, watching the fields, towns,
cities, and then fields again, I wipe tears from my ashen cheeks. I’d promised
her I would live enough for her. That was the last promise I made to the love
of my life, the last words she heard me speak. I owed her that. If nothing
else, if I didn’t get a single other thing right in my life, I owed her that
promise. Toward that life I head. I don’t know what will happen next, or who I
will meet. I simply know that one person, the only one who matters, asked me to
live and I intend to try.
Running toward what?
“Toward hope.”
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