When the Time Comes

He knew he had to leave. How that would happen or what the steps were that he had to take were not clear to him. It was just the end game, the lure of something down the road, that called. It was a rainy November night when he finally loaded up his hundred-dollar pick-up truck and hit highway 151 toward Dubuque that it hit him: he was one of those who would wander. The risks inherent in that fact were lost on him that first night on the road. He drove through the night, west, through Iowa and Nebraska. The cold of the stretch of interstate along the Platte River rushed in through the rusted gaps in the floorboards. The truck was under siege by the frozen air. He turned up the heat, put on his warmest gloves, and tried to stay awake. As the sun rose behind him, he saw the first light on the peaks of mountains as they rose above the horizon. He had left comfort for a different kind of home, the home of those who know the truth of cold and sun and having to carry your own load.