And I struggle to find a voice, my voice, traveling on this long silent highway that stretches out before me, endlessly touching a distant horizon.
There is only perspective from this point of view, and even as I look at the line where the earth meets the sky, I wonder if I can transcend the distance between time and space to stand in that very place, and I imagine that if I could, lightning would strike, thunder would clap in the sky, and tears of a thousand previously unfelt emotions would stream down my face and run in rivulets along the ground towards the previously traveled places where I began my journey.
I see the faces of friends I have known, now friends no longer, who, for reasons of their own, have simply abandoned me. There is no shame in being left alone, because even now, especially now, I am driven towards a greater purpose. Yes, those are my hands touching the wheel, pushing then pulling the lighter from the dash to light the cigarette that dangles from my mouth. My hands. The hands that once long ago gently stroked the face of the woman I loved.
If you had known me then, you wouldn't recognize me now except for perhaps the limp in my left leg. Here though, in the early evening darkness on this long silent highway, you wouldn't see the limp except when I get out to stretch my legs and take a piss.
For a moment, I sit on the hood of the old blue Cadillac, then toss the cigarette to the ground and watch an eagle fly towards the horizon. I am alone in this journey, alone on this road. Just me and the eagle, heading north to Big Sky Country.
