art of advice for the path
Alan turns the key, then presses the ignition. The bike sputters to life. Moments later it settles into a monotone. Putt-putt, putt-putt. Alan wants to rev the bike. He wants to shake the birds from their branches. But it’s too early to rouse the neighbours. Birds are free. Neighbours have schedules.
❝ Why does he get up so early?” asks the man of the house.
❝ He always has, since he was small.”
❝ Since Earl died?”
❝ Before. When first we knew.”
❝ And always to the motorcycle?”
She peers through the kitchen window and conjures images of her son as a boy. Images of a cereal bowl. Of found four-leaf clovers and index cards.
❝ No. The motorcycle came later. He wrote before dawn.”
The cards are in a cigar box in the boy’s closet. She read them once. Through the kitchen window, his mother’s focus lands on the grass. It appears greener in the yellow hues of morning light.
❝ Alan might mow today.”
❝ I could mow,” the man remarks.
❝ Let him do it. He likes listening to a novel as he mows. I want a ride into town.”
❝ You want to see whether the ‘for sale’ sign is still up. You want me to see it is still available.”
They aren’t questions. They’re discernments.
❝ We don’t need as much space. Soon there will be only the two of us.”
Alan eases out the clutch. He rolls on the throttle. Driveway gives way to the trail. Tires push against asphalt. The gravel shoulders bark a warning: stay on the path. Alan sets a course down the middle.
He imagines going slowly. So slowly that the bike is barely balanced. He imagines a rock in a stream. Blurs whoosh by. Blurs shout at him. ‘Get-off-the-road’. One word, blurred shouts.
Alan recalls his dad. Recalls his advice for the path.
❝ Proceed with confidence, pilgrim. Resourcefulness is a bird singing in the night. Unafraid to announce its presence. That or just ignorant of the dangers.”
Res that effect.
